


The Winter Witcher

by 27dragons, feignedsobriquet, tisfan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Anal Sex, Fate & Destiny, Frottage, Inspired by The Witcher, Jealousy, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magical training, Oral Sex, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Sex Pollen, smart and Sassy horse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24561163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons, https://archiveofourown.org/users/feignedsobriquet/pseuds/feignedsobriquet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Twenty years ago, the Witcher Bucky rescued the King and Queen of Stark from a monster that had moved into their castle. Pressed to name a reward above and beyond the coin he’d been promised, he claimed the Law of Surprise, electing to let destiny choose his prize. Before he could return to find out what it was that he’d won, another monster locked him in ice.Tony of Stark has always known that his marriage would be a political one, but he’s discovered that his betrothed and his chief counselor are conspiring against him. Left with no time to plan an escape and isolated from his few loyal friends, Tony’s desperation and determination unlock a conduit of chaos within him that takes him far, far away, right into the arms of his destiny.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Comments: 230
Kudos: 625
Collections: Winteriron Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is themed after Witcher (the TV show) and what little research we bothered to do about the game. 
> 
> Story is written by tisfan & 27dragons. Art by feignedsobriquet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In keeping with the general "feel" of the television show, The Witcher, this story's first few sections jump around in time a bit.

“I hate caves,” Bucky muttered. There were lots of reasons to hate them. They were dark and cold, full of blind corners and weak floors. The possibility of a cave-in was never zero. There were frequently monsters in them, and lots of other beasts as well. 

But mostly, it was really hard to swing a sword in cramped spaces.

Which generally meant he was down to using knives.

Like all Witchers, Bucky was very good with weapons; he could kill a troll with his bare hands if he needed to, fight off hordes of alghouls with nothing but a silver blade and a stick. He was lethal under most circumstances.

But that didn’t mean he liked doing any of that.

Really, things would be much easier if the monsters would all pick a straight up fight. But no, all the lurking around in the darkness made everything so easy for them, so hard for the humans they preyed upon.

It made sense.

Bucky just didn’t like it.

“You stay here,” he told his horse Widow, dismounting. “I mean it. If I come back here and you’re halfway across the meadow with grass in your bit, I will be very cross with you.”

Widow snorted and shook her mane at him disdainfully.

“I see you doubting me,” Bucky told her. “When have I ever let you down? Nevermind, don’t answer that.”

On the other hand, the creature had fled to caverns, which meant it wasn’t a nightwraith. Not necessarily that whatever it was was better than-- but the nightwraiths brought death and havoc and blindness.

Even a Witcher’s eyes, slitted to the extreme, couldn't help him if a nightwraith chose to shine her moonlight on him. If he saw it, Bucky too, would go blind. There were cures for blindness, but in the meanwhile, he’d be a lot more vulnerable. Assuming that he wasn’t killed.

He threw himself down on the ground and squirmed into the hole in the earth. It reeked of blood and shit. Not surprising. Killing people was never neat and easy, and whatever it was had dragged the corpse back here with it to feed.

"Next time someone asks you to kill a monster, get details," he told himself. Admittedly, he needed the money. Which was going to do fuck all if he got himself killed in a cave in.

The space opened up somewhat into a wide emptiness after about fifty feet. But that was also his way out, which he was not going to want to be rushed during. 

"Let's hope it doesn't have a pack," Bucky said. He drew his blade and looked around. Nothing had jumped out at him already, and he told himself that was a good sign. 

It wasn't. He didn't know where the fucking thing had _gone_ , carrying its load of freshly killed villager, some dumb fuck who'd gone after the monster. For whatever reason.

Something that could call or enchant, maybe. Mud sirens. Maybe that was a thing. Bucky sighed. He'd figure it out once he got a good look at it. Probably.

The smell of blood was stronger to the south and Bucky crossed the cavern carefully, checking to see if there were any patches of darkness that moved. The stalactites and their shadows seemed to creep and shift, but nothing jumped on him.

He was just congratulating himself for having been led on a wild goose chase when the floor went out from under him and he dropped forty feet or more. Not a wild goose chase, then.

A trap.

The creature jumped on him, snapping and biting, as Bucky hit the ground, keeping him pinned. He concentrated for just a moment, hoping the fall hadn’t taken too much of his strength. The magic built in him, and he pushed out with his left hand, calling for fire. 

_Igni._ He knew many witchers who used it, not just in combat to push monsters away, to burn them, to make them fear, but also to put up a comfy camp fire or to light the candles. Simple, adaptable.

Deadly.

The creature shrieked, backing away. Bucky took the opportunity to get to his feet--

Moss was burning all around him, sending up thick, black smoke.

 _Spriggan_ , and it was the guardian of this moss.

It shrieked again, leaping at him. It teleported away just in front of his face, and Bucky threw himself back to the ground as it reappeared at his back. Predictable.

What hadn’t been predictable was the echoing shrieks of rage--

_“Fuck.”_

A mate, and a few yearlings came charging into the cavern to defend their patriarch. 

“This might be less fun than I’d imagined,” Bucky said. On the plus side, there was a lot of room in the cavern to swing a sword.

The bad side? He was going to need all of it.

* * *

King Howard wasn’t a big man, nor broad. He sat up on a throne set so high that his feet were level with Bucky’s hips. The queen at his side was half the king’s age, beautiful and serene, if somewhat pale.

“Witcher,” the king said as Bucky approached. There was something in his eyes that almost made up for his lack of stature. Intelligence, cleverness, perception. He seemed to see right through Bucky. “Thank you for coming.”

Years of training, of watching his friends die, of living longer than everyone else he ever knew or loved, kept Bucky from letting anything show on his face. “I wasn’t aware it was an invitation,” he said. “If you’d asked, I might have dressed better.” As it was, he was in his combat leathers, and he could have used a bath. Or a hairbrush.

“We don’t have enough time for such niceties,” Howard said. “There is a Leucrote in the castle, and it’s after my blood. How much will you take to kill it?”

“Six hundred oren,” Bucky quoted. “Or two hundred lintar. Their coins are a bit purer.”

“Done,” Howard said, glancing nervously toward the halls. “It’s already taken three servants and two guards, and each time it gets a little closer to me. It must be stopped.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bucky said, matter-of-factly. “You still have what’s left of the bodies?” Because he’d discovered in the course of his work that most people had no fucking clue which monsters did what. He’d seen people mistake shrikes for werewolves, and any number of phantoms were described as _ghosts_. Idiots.

“Mostly just bloodstains,” the queen said, shuddering delicately, “and the memories of their screams. There was... some of a guard left.”

“Half of him,” Howard said bluntly. “Just his legs. You want to see that, it’s in the crypt.” He waved a hand toward a passageway. “I’ve applied to the Circle for a mage, but they’ve been slow to answer.”

“Mages,” Bucky grumbled, because Mages were more or less useless. Some more so than others. “Do you have a dungeon, or somewhere with stone floors and walls? Leucrote hate fire.” So did fleders, most of the greater vampires, and any number of spectres, so it would cover most of his options. 

“Yes, of course,” Howard said. “Perhaps that’s why it hasn’t gotten all the way to my chambers, yet. The queen is often cold, so we burn the fire all night long.”

“I came from a warmer land than this,” she added. “The dungeons are one level above the crypt.”

Bucky nodded. “Great. You two get in your room and stay there. Burn the fires, light candles, and keep the windows closed. Send everyone else out into the courtyard and have them burn bonfires. I’ll pin it down, and hopefully no one else will get hurt.”

That was a pretty impressive hope, really, but who knew, _sometimes_ things went according to plan. 

“Very well. Obie--” The king turned to address one of the nobles hovering at the sides of the room. “You get everyone outside and organize the bonfires.”

The nobleman, a tall man with broad shoulders and a bald head, bowed. “Of course, your Majesty.” He turned to begin shooing the other nobles toward the courtyard exit.

Howard stood and offered his hand to his wife. “Come, Maria. If we have hired a Witcher to rid us of this terror, then we should heed his advice.”

Bucky didn’t like the calculating way that Obie had looked at him. But that was all right. People didn’t like witchers; a necessary evil, like sewermen, or something, but people didn’t want them at court. Probably worried he’d rob the treasury while he was in the castle, unattended. 

Whatever.

Bucky didn’t bother to check on them. If the nobles were stupid enough to linger and present themselves as one of the few available food sources, that was their problem. Bucky was hired to kill a monster, not guard idiots.

Once the palace was mostly deserted -- the servants seemed to get missed in the exodus, and Bucky herded a bunch of maids and sculleries into the kitchens and had them build up the cookfires -- he started a search. 

Leucrote preferred a warm, moist den. There weren’t a lot of places in a castle that fit that description, so Bucky started down in the laundry rooms. Huge tubs of water and folded stacks of linens filled the room, and it was so wet down there that Bucky felt like mold was forming inside his lungs. His teacher would have accused him of having an overactive imagination. 

“I fight monsters,” Bucky muttered, “an imagination is a good thing.”

Whatever soap the king preferred smelled strongly of lavender and glycerine. He tipped his head, listening. The sounds were soft, quiet. Susurrations.

Something was _breathing_. 

Which at least eliminated the various spectres. Good. Bucky hated hunting things that were already dead, they just refused to believe it.

Back in the furthest corner was the mending, newer dresses and tablecloths toward the front, guard’s uniforms with worn knees toward the middle. And in the very back were the cast offs that the servants would wear, if they could be repaired.

Bucky drew his sword with a steely slither; the bright blade gleaming in the dim light, scarlet sparking off the red star device on the hilt. He poked the tip at a layer of filthy cloth, twitching it out of the way.

A long neck shot out of the pile, teeth clanging against the blade as it struck with viper-fast speed. But it was small, no larger than a greyhound, its clawed forelimbs struggling to support its weight. From deeper in the pile, another one fought its way to the surface.

There was something utterly revolting about killing them. They were tooth and claw and hunger, but they weren’t… _evil_.

_You kill monsters. That’s what you do._

Bucky gestured; _igni_ sparked off his fingers, and the creatures retreated from the bursts of flame.

It didn’t take long, which was somehow even worse.

He counted. Four-- four of them. That would account for the numbers of dead. Four, though. Damn, how the hell had no one noticed a whole damn den of the leucrote moving in?

Unless they hadn’t. Bucky used a fancy dress that probably belonged to one of the queen’s ladies in waiting to wipe black blood from his sword and pulled out his personal bestiary from his pack. His friend Steve, who aided witcher's sometimes, had drawn eyes and a mouthful of teeth on the leather binding. Pocket monster book of monsters, Bucky snickered, the way he always did.

He’d never personally seen any leucrote before. But he’d copied the entry from another Witcher’s book. “They should be bigger,” he murmured, reading the description. “OH. Oh, _fuck_.”

He held up the head of one, looking at it. Small teeth, if sharp. Unbroken. They had been dangerous, truth. But they were also tiny, comparatively. 

Because they weren’t a den, they were a _litter_.

Which meant the big one was somewhere else in the castle.

Probably toward the only food source left. 

_Shit_.

Bucky ran.

The queen’s screams were audible as soon as he emerged from belowstairs, and led him through the halls.

It was, possibly, good that she was still able to scream.

Bucky burst into the royal bedchamber to find the queen pressed against the wall, inching her way toward the door, and Howard in front of her, a sword held high between them and the horse-sized leucrote that was in the middle of the room, its head swaying from side to side on its serpentine neck.

It was a calculated risk. The creature was close enough to kill the king in a second, the blade he carried was only going to piss it off. But, if the leucrote was capable of being angry, of wanting _revenge_ \-- “Hey, mom,” Bucky yelled, and he threw the baby head he still had in one hand. “Come get me.”

She shrieked in rage, her head whipping around to face Bucky, those deadly teeth snapping only inches from his face.

Bucky staggered backward; its breath might even possibly have been worse than its bite. Yuck. He raised a hand calling up the _Ydren_ sign, casting it on the flagstones just under the queen’s feet. “Stay there! Don’t move.” He gasped, feeling the power surge through him, weakening him. The stone glowed, purple and light. There weren’t very many monsters that would cross a _Ydren,_ and even the ones that could would be slowed. 

Bucky was also slowed, but it would be worth it, if he could keep the royal family alive.

The leucrote drew back, sidling away from the _Ydren_ , but she still had more than enough neck to reach Bucky. She screamed at him again, and then _feinted,_ the damned thing, darting her neck out to bite and then swiping at Bucky with claws instead, each one half again as long as Bucky’s hand.

Claws raked down Bucky’s leathers, tearing ragged gashes across the sleeve, and bit deep into his arm. Poison raced like fire up his arm, but he grabbed the monster’s limb and twisted, holding her fast. While she was dealing with the audacity of prey that had forgotten he was supposed to be dinner, Bucky got his sword up and--

The monster’s head hit the ground with a sickening thud, black blood spurting everywhere, drenching him with it. 

“Yuck,” Bucky said, wiping off his mouth with one hand, and then spitting, because, fuck, that _stank_. Also, it didn’t taste particularly good. Why was that; humans could be food for monsters, but no one was stupid enough or tasteblinded enough to eat a monster.

Howard’s sword clattered to the floor. “Maria!” He spun around, reaching for his queen. “Are you all right?” He patted down her limbs as if making sure they were all still attached, then turned back to Bucky. “You... you saved us.”

“That’s the job,” Bucky said. He glanced around the room and found the queen’s washstand, an ewer of water there for her. He dumped the water over his head, a slimy puddle forming under his feet. “She was feeding a litter. Good job, hiring me. You wait for the Brotherhood to send someone, you would have had five of them, all hungry.”

“Thank you,” Howard said, still half-panting with fear and adrenaline. “We owe you our lives. Six hundred oren isn’t near enough, I--” He glanced down at the leucrote’s body, shuddering.

“Money is what was promised, and all that is required,” Bucky said.

“No,” Queen Maria said. She was still pressed up against the wall, her voice hoarse from screaming. “No, you deserve more. Honor demands it. Name your reward.”

Bucky almost scoffed. He was a witcher. He killed monsters, he got paid. That was how this worked. No witcher who took more ever came to a good end. They became the personal pets of rulers, demanded to go here and there, and always, always, ended up being told they had to kill some _human_. Humans were, of course, sometimes the worst monsters of all.

“It’s not necessary,” Bucky said. He didn’t need any of that; no land or medals or jewels. Hard coin spent, and he would do his duty. “Please.”

“I insist,” Howard said, straightening to his not-impressive height and fixing Bucky with that gimlet stare.

“Then I claim Law of Surprise,” Bucky said, exasperated. “Give me something that you don’t know yet that you have.” Law of Surprise usually meant something like a new coat, or a good harvest of apples, or sometimes a fine horse or a good dog. Random, tied to destiny and honor, but rarely anything important or too burdensome.

“So be it,” Howard said, nodding decisively.

“I’ll let your people know they can come back in,” Bucky said. “I’m going to the inn to take a bath and sleep. I’ll expect my oren in the morning, your majesty. Sleep well.”

He knew they wouldn’t; that it would probably be months before they could sleep at all. And they were going to have to clean the carpet in here anyway. He bowed and pondered what new things King Howard would pile on him, trying to assuage his relief and honor. Maybe a hunting falcon; that could be useful. It could have red wings and he’d name it Sam. Sam was a good name. Every hero needed a Sam.

_And Fury says I have a vivid imagination._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter includes some dub-con elements, including a spiked drink.

The spriggan was definitely dead.

Long dead. Skeletal fingers clutched at its weapon, a shiny rod of some sort. Bucky didn’t-- entirely-- remember killing it.

He was wet, too. And cold. And his brain felt like slush. He must have taken a bad hit in the fight. That happened; he was a witcher, not a demigod. Witchers got hurt, and sometimes even killed, by the monsters they were hired to kill. That had happened. 

Although, honestly, more often witchers were killed by bad information or angry townsmen than monsters.

Didn’t matter. Not really. Bucky yanked the skull off the body -- they always wanted proof -- and went to throw it in his bag.

His pack was covered in dust and mildew and there was a hole in the bottom where rats or something had chewed through it.

What the hell was going on?

He staggered to his feet. No threats leaped out of the darkness at him, but he still felt threatened. Like some great terror was closing in on him.

He was _wet_. He’d been laying in a puddle of icy sludge.

And he was hungry, but all his food was long since gone, stolen by the same rats that had destroyed his bag.

Outside the cave, his horse was gone, not even a trace of bridle or hoofprints remained. He squinted up at the sky. The constellation patterns said that it was summer. 

He’d figure this out. Sword in one hand, skull in the other, Bucky started walking toward town. They still owned him two hundred oren.

* * *

Tony was not, by nature, a suspicious man.

He’d been grateful to Lord Stane for stepping in as the Regent when his parents were killed in an accident. Tony had been too bowed with shock and grief to want anything to do with the throne or its management.

He’d accepted Obie’s analysis of his various suitors without much thought. He had to marry, of course, and he’d always known it would be a political match, not a personal one. The most he’d been able to hope for was a spouse who wasn’t some doddering wreck or a half-weaned child who wouldn’t come of age until _Tony_ was a doddering wreck.

Lord Tiberius Stone -- _my friends call me Ty_ \-- was, in fact, only a handful of years older than Tony, and was even moderately handsome, to boot. That his lands contained mines vital to the continuation of the Stark fortune was important, of course, but Tony couldn’t much be bothered to care.

He would marry, Obie would step down to let Tony assume the throne in another year, and then his life spooled out in front of him, already known.

Tony wasn’t a suspicious man. But Obie and Ty had been spending a _lot_ of time in private consultation these last few weeks, as the date of the wedding approached, and Tony wasn’t fool enough to believe they were spending so much time on a wedding gift. So when he saw them slipping into the library again, he crept up along the wall and put his ear to the door.

“-- don’t necessarily see the benefit for me in this arrangement, Lord Stane,” Ty said. “The boy’s nice enough, pretty, Easily manipulated. To think, he actually believes that I _like_ him. But no matter. A few sharp smacks around the face, he’ll do just as he’s told. So, convince me. Why should I let you in on all this power and money?”

Obie clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “You think he’s that biddable? He’s got a stubborn streak a mile wide, when he digs his heels in. You’re going to need me to handle him for you. Not to mention that you know nothing about the actual people, how to govern them, how to get the most out of our mines and factories. I could triple the production in your iron mines within a year. You need me, Stone.”

“And yet, you _didn’t_ ,” Ty said, and Tony could almost imagine him admiring the rings on his hand, as Ty was prone to doing when someone he didn’t find interesting was talking to him. “Through your whole time as regent, you’ve been, what? Trying to make secret treaties with Nilfgaard? Is that all you have to show for that time?”

“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating Nilfgaard,” Obie warned. “The allies I’ve made there will come in handy. You think you know everything there is to know? You’ve only scratched the surface.” His voice lowered, and Tony could all but feel the hot breath on his neck as Obie leaned in. “I’m the one who put you on that throne. I can take you off again. The wedding’s not until tomorrow.”

“No, you can’t,” Ty said. “You think I’m not prepared? My contact at Aretuza has instructions to explain exactly what happened to the Prince’s betrothed, if I should end up in an unfortunate situation, Lord Stane. Don’t threaten me. We can work together, or we can be at odds. You won’t like being at odds.”

“Working together is all I asked for,” Obie said with a chuckle. “You’re the one who wanted to be convinced.” Heavy footsteps moved across the room, and Tony bolted, lest the door open and catch him lingering in the hall.

He ducked around the corner and leaned against the polished stone walls, panting from more than the run. What... What had just happened? His soon-to-be Consort and his Regent, conspiring against him? To, what? Keep him under their thumbs? Make a puppet of him?

A cold, bright anger flashed through him and he gritted his teeth against the scream of rage that wanted to come out. He couldn’t stand against them both, not together. Not alone.

During the wedding, with all the nobles assembled. That would be the time to make his move.

And, in the meanwhile, he needed to avoid both of them, because Tony knew his own strengths and weaknesses. Keeping a pleasant public face was easy, but Obie -- Lord Stane, he corrected with a mental sneer -- knew him well enough to know when Tony put that mask on around him, something was _wrong_.

He was pretty sure Lord Stane wasn’t going to believe that Tony had wedding jitters.

Well, there was one place that both of them were loathe to follow him. Tony spun on his heel and strode toward the forge. Ty didn’t like getting his precious hands dirty, and Obie valued too much the things Tony created. Neither would disturb him until it was time to dress for the wedding, and then Tony could write off his odd behavior as a post-creation fugue.

And, killing two birds with one stone, maybe trying to work out the intricacies of his latest invention would take his mind off the betrayal.

Probably not. But maybe. 

* * *

The palace was full of people; nobles that Tony knew, and nobles that Tony didn’t. The Nilfgard had sent a representative, a man named Brock Rumlow, who had a handsome face and a sneering smile that made Tony uncomfortable. 

There were a lot of people, Tony noted, that he didn’t know.

And some people that he did know, and fully expected to be there, weren’t.

The commander of Stark’s armies, Colonel Rhodes -- better known to Tony as his dearest and oldest friend -- was conspicuous in his absence.

Lady Potts wasn’t, either, and that was even more disturbing.

Tony was straining his neck, peering through the crack in the door and trying to find _anyone_ he was friends with -- or even _friendly_ ; he’d take Harley the stableboy at this point -- when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. “Tony, m’boy,” Obie -- _Stane_ \-- rumbled. “Something’s eating at you.”

Tony hummed noncommittally and didn’t let himself give in to the urge to duck away from Stane’s touch. “A few second thoughts,” he admitted. “Are we sure the mines are the best route? Might have been smarter to make an alliance of some of the border lords, with Nilfgaard breathing down our necks like they’ve been doing.”

“Tony, Tony, Tony,” Stane said, the very picture of an indulgent uncle. “I’ve always said, you should leave the politics to me. Trust me, this is the alliance we need.” He eyed Tony carefully, then tugged a flask out of the inner pocket of his vest. “Here. You look like you could use a nip to steady your nerves.” He unscrewed the lid and handed it over. “Go on, take a swig. Take two. All this pomp and ceremony is enough to drive a man to drink. God knows, your father couldn’t get through a formal function without a couple of glasses in him.”

_Or bottles_ , Tony thought sourly, but he took the flask. To refuse it would be suspicious. He sniffed at it, but it smelled like nothing more than brandy. “Nipping the good stuff out of the library, are you?” he said, as if he were joking. Teasing. 

He took a little, just enough to roll across his tongue. The brandy was sweeter than he remembered it. “What is this?”

“Apple brandy,” Stane said. “Came fresh from the orchard distillery this morning, a dozen barrels, for the feast. I had to make sure of the quality, didn’t I?”

“Truly, you’re a credit to the kingdom,” Tony said wryly, and took another, longer swallow. “It’s not half bad.”

“Keep it,” Stane said, waving a big hand carelessly. “The ceremony will be rather long, dry, and boring. You know how the priests are. Never say in ten words what can take an hour.”

Trying to keep him pliable and agreeable, Tony thought, but he took another quick nip off the flask before tucking it into his own pocket. “How much longer?”

“Not long,” Stane said, patting him on the shoulder. “A few more minutes until the music starts, then only an hour or so, and you’ll be a married man.”

“I guess so.” _Over my dead body_. Though that would be too much like giving them what they actually wanted. “You’d better go take your place.”

“Eager to get started,” Stane said. “That’s good.”

“I just want to get out of this damned formalwear,” Tony complained. “It’s _hot_.” And getting hotter by the second, it seemed.

“Your soon-to-be husband will be delighted to assist with that,” Stane said, and with another thump on the shoulder, he left the room.

Tony tugged at the too-tight throat of his shirt, the heavy embroidery rendering the light weave of the cloth irrelevant. It was so _hot_. All those people crowding into the hall, blocking the flow of air. All those candles along the walls, lit hours before they’d actually be needed.

Incense, too, cloying and thick. It seemed to gather at the back of Tony’s throat as he breathed in, refusing to leave when he exhaled. More and more of it, a lump, a stone, sinking down his chest and through his belly, coming to rest in his balls.

The music started up, trained musicians strumming their instruments in tunes of love and devotion, loyalty and longing. Instead of Rhodey, or Pepper, the person who came to escort Tony into the main part of the church was Rumlow, the Nilfgaard representative. 

“Come on, you little slut,” the man said, grabbing Tony’s arm around the bicep and yanking. “Let’s get this farce over with.”

Tony stumbled and then dug in his heels. “You will not speak to me like that,” he said, trying for firm and commanding, but it came out watery and slow, too distracted by the way Rumlow’s hand on his arm felt like lighting a fire under his skin. “What... What the fuck is...”

“The witch said it would work fast,” Rumlow said. “Good to know she wasn’t lying. Now-- come out and get married, or I’ll call in my whole squad and take care of this ourselves.”

Squad? Why would Nilfgaard have sent a whole squad with their representative? Tony couldn’t think, something was making his thoughts murky. Rumlow’s hand on his still felt like fire, and as much as Tony mistrusted the man, part of him wanted Rumlow to touch him some more. Wanted...

Oh. Oh _shit_. The brandy.

Should have been more suspicious, Tony thought frantically, watching as his feet carried him closer and closer to the priest and his doom. “No,” he whispered, but he couldn’t stop.

“Anthony, darling, you look delicious,” Ty said, as Tony was brought to his appointed spot, and Rumlow faded a step backward. He reached out one hand, offering it to Tony.

Tony lifted his hand to take it, but stopped, just inches away.

If he so much as _touched_ Ty, he knew, it was sealing his fate. He wouldn’t be able to resist the heat, the potion Stane had given him. He pulled his hand back, shaking with the effort. “No.”

“He’s shy,” Ty said, as if joking around with the priest. “Wedding jitters. You know how it is.”

“Well, let’s just begin, then,” the priest said. “People take comfort in ceremony, in the familiar and routine. That’s why we have them.” And the man flipped to the page in the holy book to read the beginnings of the wedding ceremony.

It wasn’t a priest Tony knew. Not the frail, elderly, serene man that Tony remembered from his youth, nor the younger, bright-eyed one who’d stepped in when the old priest became too weak to perform his duties. This was another priest, someone Ty had brought, no doubt.

“No,” Tony said louder, cutting off the priest’s words. He stepped back -- stumbled, really, and the entire crowd would think he was in his cups, but he couldn’t... couldn’t do this.

“You lied,” Tony said. “You planned to _use_ me. To _force_ me to do your will. What were you going to do? Lock me in a tower and claim I’d gone mad?”

Ty reached for him and Tony backed away another several steps. “I said _no!_ ”

Someone touched him; a soft hand on his hand, another one cradling the back of his neck, and Tony looked up into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

“Pretty sure I didn’t order company for tonight,” the man said, but he kept hold of Tony, keeping him upright. “But you are a pretty thing, ain’t you?”

Tony blinked and looked around wildly. He wasn’t in the palace. He was in a room, some sort of room -- it was barely bigger than Tony’s _bathing_ room, but it had a bed and a large trunk against one wall and oh _god_ , the stranger’s hands were sinking heat into Tony’s skin and he was trembling with it, desperate for more. He looked back at the stranger, into those sky-blue eyes, and entirely without thinking about it, lurched forward to press his mouth against the stranger’s.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sex-pollen/magic potion takes effect here. Both Tony and Bucky end up under the influence, but some consent is obtained.

For a long moment, Bucky just melted into the kiss. It was soft, eager, and the lips on his were warm, pliant, and tasted like brandy.

Sweet. Like--

Bucky shoved the boy away, unconsciously licking at his lip. Sweet Brandy.

“Fuck,” he said, then shook the stranger. “Who are you? How did you get here?”

“What?” The boy looked at him with a dazed expression. His cheeks were flushed, his skin feverish to the touch. “I don’t know, I was...” He shook his head, trying to clear it, and looked around again. “Tony,” he said, and he looked at Bucky again with pupils so blown that Bucky could barely see the golden ring of his irises. “My name’s Tony.” He reached for Bucky again.

 _Magic doesn’t work on me,_ the girl said in his memory, _but silver does._

Bucky wore silver, one ring on each finger of his left hand, and a bracelet. He stepped back, trying to untangle himself from Tony. It was harder than it should be, the potion was already making a fire in his veins. He’d been trained to recognize it, but he’d expected it to be presented to him in a cup, not on the lips of the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

“Give me your hand,” Bucky managed to say. If Tony was not what he appeared, a dopple or some other human-like monster, the silver would burn him, force him to show himself.

Burn him. And the stink of burning flesh was another thing that would cut through a potion of Sweet Brandy.

Tony willingly gave up his hand, stepping even closer, all but pressing his body against Bucky’s, until Bucky could feel the heat radiating off him. “Please,” he whispered, “I need...”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Bucky said, turning the hand over in his grasp, unburned, unchanged. Bucky tried to remember how to call the magic. _Igni_ didn’t have to be so hot as to melt flesh from bones. Many witches used it to light their cherots or a fireplace, or the candles. To melt ice. He could just--

\--have an armful of warm, willing man, who was wriggling against him, fingers on his free hand searching for the openings of Bucky’s clothes. “Who gave it to you? The Sweet Brandy?” Bucky found himself nuzzling at Tony’s throat, seeking the pulse point. Giving in to the Brandy would satisfy the potion, would cool the burning in both their veins--

“Mm?” Tony’s hands curled around Bucky’s neck, fingers digging into Bucky’s hair as he pulled Bucky closer. “Obie gave it to me. You want some?” He scrabbled at his coat and pulled out a flask.

“No, I--” Tony’s earlobe was a tempting target, and Bucky found himself nipping at the soft skin there. “--think you gave me some already.”

He tried to trace it back. He had been sitting in the room, but-- “How did you get in here?” The door hadn’t opened, and there was something in the air, a whiff of-- flowers and herbs. And the almost electric feel of chaos. “Did this Obie want you for himself?”

Tony shook his head. “No, he just wants the power. Thought Ty wanted me, but he just wants the power, too.” He sounded achingly sad, despite the way he was still determinedly tugging at Bucky’s clothes. “Heard ‘em talking. Conspiring. Think... Think the brandy is spiked with something.” He shook his head again, but then tucked his face against the curve of Bucky’s shoulder, breath spilling hot and tempting over Bucky’s skin. “Don’t know... Was at the wedding. I said no, and he was going to grab me, and I was just... here.” He nuzzled at Bucky’s throat. “Please, just...”

Monsters were often created from humans, by humans. Powerful magic, powerful chaos, and an utter lack of regard for consequences -- the boy could become a thrall, or worse, cursed as an incubus. 

“Hey--” Bucky had meant to reach for Tony’s shoulders to shake him, and found himself with his hands on Tony’s hips instead, fingers curling to use pants -- fine, embroidered cloth, beautiful and rich -- to tug him closer, rub against him. “Listen to me--” It was, Bucky thought, too late for the _Igni_ to snap Tony out of it. “Can you think rationally at all?”

“Yes,” Tony said. “Little... fuzzy, but I’m thinking. Just can’t _stop_..” He was rutting against Bucky’s leg desperately.

“I know, shhh, I know.” Bucky pulled him back toward the bed, which Tony grasped almost immediately, and wasn’t resisting at all, eager for it. “I know, it’s like fire in your blood. I feel it, too. Listen, I’ll help you, we can help each other-- but I need to know. Are you afraid? Will you hate me for it? They-- those feelings can lead to you being cursed. But if-- if we soothe the fire in peace, in joy, you won’t be.”

If Tony was scared, unwilling, would need revenge, then Bucky would have to _Igni_ himself, and then sit on the boy until the potion ran out, and the whole time, he’d be in pain, in need. Desperate and eventually angry, and it-- it was really hard to think when Tony had managed to get a hand up Bucky’s shirt, his fingers tracing the lines of Bucky’s chest--

“Not scared,” Tony panted. “Not with you. You’re... you’re a Witcher, aren’t you? I can _feel_ it. My mother always said I could trust Witchers.”

“I am a Witcher,” Bucky said. “I’m not human, but-- I won’t hurt you. You can trust me.” He felt something, too, but thought it might be an effect of the Sweet Brandy. A need to trust this boy, a need to protect him, claim him. “My name is Bucky. You can call me Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Tony repeated, and the sound of his name on Tony’s lips fanned the desire even hotter. “You won’t hurt me. Ty... Ty wanted to hurt me. To make me do what he wanted. He was going to-- You’re not like that, though. You’re kind. I can tell.” He spun them around, strength surprising in a human, and fell back into the bed, pulling Bucky over him. “Love me, Bucky.”

Succumbing to the driving heat and need, Bucky nestled himself between Tony’s thighs. “Yeah, think maybe I can--” There was an urgent throb in his groin that said damn well he _could_. And would. The fire was burning too hot, now. Tony had to be _suffering_ from it, having actually drunk the potion and not gotten merely a few drops transferred in a kiss. “You’re burning up, there, sweet thing. Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

They were wedding clothes, Bucky realized, as he parted the laces on the jerkin. Meant to be removed by _someone else_. The material practically fell away, leaving bare, heated skin for Bucky to explore.

Tony gasped as the clothes fell away, spreading his arms wide as he arched up against Bucky. “Bucky,” he gasped, “Gods, please touch me, I need you to, _please_.” There were tears of desperating standing in those wide eyes. “Anything, anything you want of me, just--”

“Shhh,” Bucky told him. “I have you.” And he ran a hand down Tony’s chest, slid under the waistband of his trousers. Fingers brushed the heated flesh there, velvet skin and hard as iron. “Trust me.”

Tony cried out at the touch, surging up into it, wild and beautiful. “Bucky!” His hands were tugging at Bucky’s shirt again, shaking as he tried to strip it off over Bucky’s head.

When Bucky touched his mouth to Tony’s again, all thought seemed to burn away. There was only driving need, feeling, _desire_. He couldn’t get Tony undressed fast enough. Clothing tore and there was no concern for it. His hands were on Tony’s body, Tony’s scent was in his nostrils, his taste on Bucky’s tongue, and--

“Uh-huh, I got you,” Bucky murmured again, stroking Tony’s length without much care for how quickly it would be over. Some small part of him knew it wouldn’t be, that the Sweet Brandy would drive performance until they were both wrung out and exhausted. “Let me have it--”

“Oh, oh, oh--” Tony writhed and whined, hands grasping wherever they could reach, until he gasped and shivered and spilled over Bucky’s hand and his own stomach, a thick stripe of white desecrating that smooth olive skin. His erection barely flagged for a moment before it was hard again, hot and heavy in Bucky’s grip. “Oh gods,” Tony whimpered. He surged upward to catch Bucky’s mouth again.

Bucky groaned, rubbing himself against Tony’s thigh, heated and slippery now with his spill. He swallowed the sounds that Tony was making. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “Perfect. Lovely. Exquisite. _Mine_.” He snarled that word and surged behind it, his body drawing up tight until he could barely breathe, hardly see, and everything was Tony, Tony, Tony.

“Yours,” Tony panted, “yes, Bucky, please...” He rolled his hips, wrapping his legs around Bucky’s waist and grinding them together. “It won’t-- How long does it last?” His voice broke on it as he tucked his face into Bucky’s neck, teeth scraping along Bucky’s collar bone.

“Until dawn,” Bucky said. He managed to raise his head to look at the candle clock. “A few more hours, and then we’ll sleep.” He could feel it, starting to rise in his own dick again, stirring and need and-- at least it was a private room and he’d rented it for the week while he tried to figure out what the hell had happened to him. “The innkeeper will bring food and drink for me for breakfast. Can you last that long--”

Tony groaned. “I, I don’t know, I-- I’ll have to, won’t I? I can’t just-- Oh _gods_ , Bucky!” He skated his hands down Bucky’s sides, slipped between them to curl around Bucky’s cock. “This, this, I need more...”

And then it was bodies again, and hands and mouths and desperate need. Rutting like animals, mingled with soft words, again, beautiful and sweet, strangled cries like music and eager grunts. Bucky could-- he could-- oh, there was Tony’s body under his, and he drove down, thrusting, finding everything he ever needed in the silky pull.

Tony was sweet and responsive, uninhibited -- though that might have been the Sweet Brandy’s influence -- and startlingly curious, when the potion gave him any room to think. He explored Bucky’s body with nimble, lightly callused fingers and a hot, wet mouth.

It was perhaps an hour before dawn when Tony giggled suddenly. “I wonder,” he gasped, “I wonder what my intended thought to do with me, like this. He couldn’t _possibly_ have kept up.”

Bucky raised his head, barely stopping what he was doing with Tony-- “He wouldn’t have had to. Think how desperate you would have been, what promises you might have made, under this influence.” Rage burned in him at the thought of someone using Tony that way, treating him with such cruelty, making something that should have been wonderful and beautiful -- his wedding night -- into a farce, a curse.

Tony’s expression sobered. “Seems crueller, somehow, than just beating me into compliance.” He cupped Bucky’s face, hand trembling with exhaustion and emotion. Traced the line of Bucky’s jaw, trailed down the side of Bucky’s neck, over a shoulder. “I’m glad it’s you.”

“It feels-- very right,” Bucky said. “Fated. Destiny. My friend would say destiny is what people use, in order to feel that the bullshit of life makes sense. But sometimes-- sometimes I think everything makes sense.”

“Nothing makes sense,” Tony countered. “What’s the sense in parents dying before their children are grown, or the existence of evil? Why would destiny choose evil?” He pushed Bucky over onto his back, straddling Bucky’s hips to rut them together, pinning Bucky down by the shoulders. “Maybe destiny brought me to you. But that doesn’t excuse what I went through to get here. Or you.”

“I didn’t do anything to get here,” Bucky said. “I woke up. After apparently having been enchanted for the last twenty-five years or so. Why wake up now-- if not to be here for you?”

Tony shook his head, then shuddered and tucked his face up against Bucky’s neck again. “I wish I could believe it was so well-organized.” He hissed and bucked, groaning as his hips rolled. “I wish...”

Bucky snorted, and that moved them together in more interesting ways. He would have thought nothing more of this would be interesting, would feel good in any more than the basest of ways, but, dear gods it did. “I didn’t say _well-organized_. Damn destiny pulling strings everywhere like a child trying to get magnets to stick together, no matter what’s between them.”

Tony laughed a little. “That, I might believe.”

Dawn broke, and Bucky knew it because his interest in sex went from _yes, please, more_ to _Oh, ow, that hurts, and I’m hungry._ He became more aware of the sticky, sweaty condition they were in -- and that the bed was quite… moist. His muscles ached, and not entirely in a pleasant way.

He gave a very brief consideration to just-- ignoring all that. It wasn’t like he hadn’t woken up in worse condition, sometimes.

And then Tony made a soft, almost wounded sound.

“Hey,” Bucky said. “It’s all right-- I’ll take care of everything. Just… rest a moment.”

“Of course it’s not all right,” Tony said, his voice hoarse. “My chief advisor and my fiance are probably solidifying their claim as we speak.”

“Perhaps,” Bucky said, then leaned over the side of the bed to grab what was left of his belongings. “Here, Swallow.” He noted the face that Tony was making. This had all happened to him because he drank something he shouldn’t have. “Like the bird, not the action. It’s healing magic, it won’t harm you.”

Tony took the tiny bottle and uncorked it, sniffing at the contents dubiously. He eyed Bucky uncertainly for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. He downed the potion in one quick swallow, and immediately screwed up his face comically. “Well, now I know it’s good for me. Nothing evil could taste that terrible.”

“You learn to love it,” Bucky said. “When it is all that is between you and death.” 

He took his own dose, the mage who made it for him would no doubt laugh that he’d taken it to cure a few friction burns and some strained muscles. Especially in the groin area. “How far did you run, to get here?” Since no one had come seeking him while they were in the thrall of the potion.

Tony shook his head. “I don’t even know where _here_ is.”

“You’re in Faire Brooklyn, somewhat north of the Hudson,” Bucky said. “At least my enchanted sleep didn’t take me anywhere new, and some of the villagers even knew me from my visit. They thought the spriggan had got me, but as it didn’t come back for them, they paid what they owed.”

Tony’s eyes were wide. “ _Faire Brooklyn?_ ” he squeaked. “I was in _Malibu_. I’d have to travel for... For _months_ , ahorse!”

“Then you made a portal,” Bucky said. “A conduit moment, unless you have had others. Ever been so afraid or angry that you’ve made something happen? You’re male, so you won’t attract the attention of the rectoress by uncontrolled chaos. But it is not a thing you will wish to possess without learning how to control it.”

“A _portal?_ ” Tony shook his head. “No, no I couldn’t have, I don’t--” He looked around the room as if seeking some other explanation. “I...” He covered his mouth with his hands. “Oh gods.”

“Well, they’re probably not going to be of much help,” Bucky said. “Gods don’t really care much about the little things we do down here. Malibu. Huh. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been to Malibu, even without the enchanted sleep. I wonder if King Howard’s got me a surprise yet.”

Tony frowned. “He died. Five years ago, almost. You... you knew him?”

Bucky pressed his lips together. _Witchers don’t get attachments. Witchers don’t need feelings. They only get in the way._ “I saved his life, his and his lady queen’s. They were newly married,” Bucky said. “I’m grieved to hear it.”

“ _That was you,_ ” Tony breathed, sitting up straight. “ _You’re_ the reason--” He looked around the room again. “Yes. Why else would I come _here?_ ”

“You took a sharp left on the trail and left me behind,” Bucky said. He managed to unlimber his legs and arms enough to get out of the bed. Heat some water for a wipe down, maybe order a bath. “I’m what’s reason?”

“Destiny, I guess,” Tony said, mouth twisting in wry amusement. “I’m your surprise.”

Bucky didn’t quite drop the pitcher of water on his way back to bed, but it was a near thing. “Here,” he said, wringing out a cloth. “You’ll feel better after you clean up a bit.” Tony was covered in both of their spend, sweat, and the tattered remains of his clothing. “You-- you’re the surprise? The Queen was pregnant, and didn’t know it?”

“Yeah. They found out maybe two days after you’d left.” Tony took the cloth and absently swiped at the mess, shedding the clinging remnants of his clothing. “But you never came back for me, so Obie said I needed to marry before I took the throne.”

“You can’t cheat destiny,” Bucky said. “To be sure, I would have tried it. My life is no life for a child, an infant. What was I going to do, say ‘can you babysit my adopted son for ten minutes while I kill these drowners?’”

“Well, you’ve got me now,” Tony said.

“And spectacularly thoroughly, at that,” Bucky said, giving his lover, his-- his destiny -- a wry grin.

Tony actually _blushed_ , which was damned adorable. “Yes, I suppose so.” He picked up his shirt and held it up. “I may need some fresh clothes.”

“We’ll take care of that, after we sleep,” Bucky said. He found a few spare blankets in the standing chest and stripped off the offending ones. “And food, and arrange travel. We’re closest to Rissberg, one of the magic academies. We should seek help there, before we attempt Malibu.”

“I stopped listening after you said sleep,” Tony admitted. He took one of the spare blankets from Bucky, shook it out, and draped it over the bed, then immediately crawled under it.

Bucky couldn’t help but smile down at the lump of Tony in the bed. Curled up next to him and pulled the second blanket over himself. 

_Two people, bound by Destiny, will always find each other._


	4. Chapter 4

Tony drifted for a long time in the hazy twilight between sleep and waking, muzzily trying to chase after the dream he’d been having, the one where the Witcher his parents had told him about had, after all come to claim him and he hadn’t had to marry Tiberius after all.

Then the warmth at his back _moved_ and Tony jolted awake on a gasp, memory flooding his brain and turning his cheeks hot enough to ache. The potion, the farce of a wedding, Ty, _Bucky_ \-- Tony sat up and turned. Bucky was there, curled around the hollow where Tony had been, beautiful in repose.

And, as far as Tony could see, utterly naked. Tony’s gaze traveled down the Witcher’s chest, to the trail of hair leading under the blankets, and he jerked his eyes aside, blushing even more furiously.

“All things considered,” Bucky said, without even opening his eyes, or moving, “it’s a little late to come over the blushing bridegroom.”

“I can’t exactly help it, can I?” Tony said testily. He was _also_ naked, which made perfect sense but didn’t stop him from yanking the edge of the blanket up over his chest. “What even _was_ that potion?” He spotted the flask lying on the floor and shuddered, resisting the urge to either shove it away like a poisonous insect, or scoop it up and pour the remainder of its contents down the midden. He might never be able to taste brandy again.

“Well, no, I suppose you can’t,” Bucky said. He opened one eye, and how he managed to give Tony a heated and pleased (and _smug_ , the bastard) look with one eye and bedhead, Tony would never know. “Was that your first test in the linens, then?”

“More or less,” Tony said, because he didn’t want to outright admit it. “Father used to talk about hiring a... companion to teach me. But Obie said he’d been joking, that I’d have a wider field of matches if I were untouched.” More like, it would be easier for Obie to sell him off, to sell off the throne. Anger burned away the lingering embarrassment, at least for a moment. “What am I going to _do?_ ” he wondered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“You would have a wider range of matches, against those who don’t care for the person you are,” Bucky said, gently. “Only someone who has failed to please would want a partner that doesn’t know any better. I hope I was not too ungentle with you. The Sweet Brandy passed from you, to me, through your kiss. I was hardly in a better position than you.”

“You were, it was fine.” Better than fine, really, though Tony wasn’t sure how much of that had been the potion and how much was real. “I’m... sorry you got tangled up in it.”

“I have no regret. You were warm and tender and pleasing, when I most needed those things, to remind me that I survived. And, in turn, I treated you as well as you could wish for, then there is no sorrow to have.” Bucky got out of the bed, uninhibited in his nakedness. “As for what you shall do now? I suppose there are many options. If you will share with me your priorities, maybe I can help you decide.”

“I...” Tony sat back against the head of the bed, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I can’t let Ob-- Stane and Stone usurp the throne. They were, there was a whole squadron of Nilfgaard soldiers at the wedding, not just the representative. Gods only know what kind of deals they’ve been making without my knowing, or what it will mean for my people. I have to get back, undo whatever damage they’ve done.”

“Nilfgaard? At Malibu? That’s hardly comforting,” Bucky said. “But, you do not _have_ to go back. You were betrayed, it was very possible you could have been _cursed._ Whatever evil Nilfgaard brings, it will do so on the heads of those who betrayed you, as well. Only a great fool makes a deal with a hydra, thinking one face is the only one they have.”

“If it was only their heads on the block, I’d leave them to it,” Tony said. “But I can’t let Nilfgaard run rampant over my people. Or let them have my weapons.”

“Well, perhaps not,” Bucky said. “They are not known for their mercy. Which leaves me to another suggestion. Rissberg. You need to control your magic. It can destroy you, or those close to you, in an instant, if your rage is unleashed. And, perhaps, if you master it quickly, you will be able to open a portal, _intentionally_. On horseback, over the mountains, and to Malibu from here -- that is a long, long trip. Better a few months at Rissberg, and portal home.”

Tony chewed his lip. It went against all his instincts, but rationally, he knew Bucky was right. “Will they help us? I’m-- Stark is wealthy enough, but I can’t put my hands on surety of coin as I am. All I have is what I had when I came to you, last night.” He looked at the scraps on the floor. “And I don’t even have some of that anymore.”

“You don’t need money,” Bucky said. “You have a Witcher. Even if they’ve no monsters for a bounty, or any fliers in the village nearby, I’ve never once met an academic who wasn’t looking for bits and pieces of monsters to run their experiments upon. You will have everything you need.”

If it were anyone else, Tony would have asked why Bucky was so ready to help him. But with the late morning light angling through the curtained window and the potion dissipated from his veins, Tony could _feel_ the connection between them, an invisible thread, a tension Tony had felt for most of his life that had finally eased, leaving in its wake a warm presence.

“Well,” he said, “the first thing I’m going to need is some pants.”

“Market,” Bucky said, and he tugged on his own pants, leather and black and tight fitting, with scuffs and dirt on them. Armor, more than mere clothing. “Or I do have one dress outfit which seemed to have survived twenty years asleep in a block of ice. But I’ve been told it makes me look like a sad silk merchant, and would probably not fit you particularly.”

“Well, either I wear it or you have to go buy me something and bring it back,” Tony pointed out. “I very much doubt the good people of Faire Brooklyn want to see me at the market wrapped in a blanket.”

“No, but the bad ones might,” Bucky said, giving Tony another leer, which seemed more playful and friendly than the leers Tony had gotten from other people. “And I appreciate the view. Sad silk merchant it is.” He reached into his trunk again and pulled out a shirt, vest, and trousers, all in brilliant, tawdy colors. “Don’t judge me, red and gold were all the fashion, some thirty years ago.”

“As it happens, red is my favorite color.” Tony took the trousers and pulled them on with a guilty sense of relief, and quickly laced into the shirt. “They need hemming, but otherwise the fit isn’t _entirely_ terrible.” It wasn’t _good_ , either; more like a first attempt by a novice tailor, but as long as they didn’t encounter any nobility or actual silk merchants, he supposed it would do. He shrugged into the vest, then turned to spread his arms, presenting himself for Bucky’s inspection. “Well?”

“Beautiful,” Bucky said, appearing utterly charmed. “Market, breakfast, and see to getting a horse or two.”

“I can ride,” Tony answered the unspoken question. “And breakfast would be _most_ welcome.”

* * *

For a horse that had probably died at least fifteen years ago -- Bucky had trouble remembering sometimes that horses did not live nearly as long as witchers -- Black Widow was looking in fine shape. She glared at him over the fence at the hostler’s pen as if to ask him where in all the hells had he been, and how dare he keep her waiting so long.

“It’s good to see you, too,” he told her, holding out a hand for her to sniff.

“Be careful, good sir, she’s a biter--”

“She won’t bite me,” Bucky said. Widow never did. No matter how many lives she’d gone through to get back to him.

Tony, standing back a little to look over the horses in the pen, cocked his head curiously. “Is that some Witcher talent I’ve not heard of? Taming horses?”

“Only the one,” Bucky said, patting Widow’s flank. She fell into step behind him as if he’d already gotten a bridle. “She knows she’s needed. So, which beast do you prefer--” Widow nudged him hard in the back, from the feel of it, slobbering over his leathers. “You needn’t get pushy.”

“I like the look of the bay. And -- the _one_? You’ve been asleep for twenty-five years, you said. How could you know _this_ horse?” He eyed Widow curiously.

Bucky ignored the question, mostly because he didn’t know the answer. “Widow, say hello to Tony. He’s going to be traveling with us, so don’t step on his feet or bite him or knock things over onto his head while he’s sleeping, all right?” Widow gave Tony a flat stare, and then tipped her head at Bucky, as if inquiring whether or not he was sure, and absolutely this _Tony_ looked too small and useless to be worth the trouble. Bucky laughed. “Do it because I asked you.”

Tony was eyeing Bucky dubiously, but he gamely held out his hand for Widow’s inspection. “Is it because you don’t like the bay?” he asked, playing along. “By all means, make a suggestion.”

Widow snorted, shook her head from side to side, flapping her mane around, then trotted into the ring, before selecting a dappled grey gelding and herding the horse back to them. She snorted again, as if to say, _There_.

“Bucky, what the hell. Is your horse actually a cursed person or something?” Tony gingerly took the grey’s lead and ran a hand over its neck and side.

“Not so far as I know,” Bucky told him. “She’s just-- always where I need her to be. And smarter than the average horse, so that’s always a benefit.”

“Okay, well. This one will do.”

“I think you’ll find that, traveling with me, things are not-- always as expected,” Bucky said. “And I’d offer to let you back out of the deal, but I don’t think that would go well, for either of us. Fate went to an awful lot of trouble getting us together in the first place.” He led the two horses over to the drover and paid him a handful of coin, not even bothering to count them out.

“I’m not trying to back out,” Tony protested, following Bucky out into the market. “I’m just trying to figure out what the rules are, now.”

Bucky considered that for a moment. There were rules. Lots of them, and they’d mostly been so drilled into Bucky’s head during his training that he didn’t even know that he knew a thing, until he needed to know it. Absently, he tugged off one of his silver rings. “Ride behind me, but not too far. Keep your sword readily at hand. Don’t look behind you. And test everything with silver before you befriend it.” He gave Tony the ring. “Wear this.”

Tony tested the ring on several fingers before finding one where it fit. “I don’t _have_ a sword,” he pointed out. “All I have is this stupid ceremonial dagger that’s more likely to fold in half if I hit anything with it. Why not look behind me?” Tony asked a lot of questions, Bucky was finding.

“It’s both cautionary and philosophical,” Bucky said. “The man looking to the past cannot see the trouble he’s currently in. And if something is chasing you, you’ll know when it catches up. Wasting time squinting behind you will only slow you down.”

Tony huffed. “Yeah, okay, Oh Wise Elder.” He took stock of himself and their newly-acquired mounts. “So, saddles, and then... what’s next? How far to Rissberg?”

“Not far,” Bucky said, although it was-- far in his memory, if not far in miles. “A week, maybe ten days if the weather doesn’t hold. Rain in the pass leads to the ferry being unusable, and I’m not fording the Hudson unless we’ve a dragon hunting us or worse.”

“Well, let’s hope to avoid _that_ ,” Tony said. “That doesn’t sound like any fun at all.”

Bucky didn’t bother to respond to that, either. Dragons were mercurial creatures at best. And generally speaking, if you didn’t bother one, they wouldn’t bother you. Only an idiot went hunting dragons in the first place. And Stark was wealthy enough that Tony shouldn’t be tempted by rumors of treasure.

Food, clothing, tack, a tent. Annoying. If he’d had the sense of a drowner, Bucky would have gone straight for a Witcher stronghold to be resupplied. But there was no way he was taking _Tony_ there. 

But they’d be underway that afternoon. First camp on the road. He used the shiny bit of a market shop’s display to eye Tony, who kept getting drawn in by the various market barkers. First time at Market, and no wonder. Howard and Maria would have been very protective of their son. You didn’t cheat destiny, not even in death, and Tony would have been precious beyond rubies.

He almost lost sight of Tony for a moment, but then spotted him leaning in close to a merchant selling toys carved out of wood that could perform simple movements. They were clever enough, Bucky had to grant, but nothing that a grown man should find so fascinating.

"I might have had a few like soldiers back when I was a child," Bucky said. His childhood was so long ago, and then… well the going rate for a healthy male child was even more than two good fatted calves. His sisters were hungry…

Bucky told himself that he didn't blame his parents. Things were hard all around. 

Tony laughed at the puppets’ antics, and tucked his arm through Bucky’s, pressing up against Bucky’s side. “I know, I shouldn’t get distracted so easily. They just gave me ideas, and I wanted to see them closer.”

"The market is good for that," Bucky said, amused. He knew he should be impatient or irritated, but being with Tony was like some impossible burden had been lifted from him. Happiness was not a thing he was used to.

“Can we trade this useless stick for a good carving knife?” Tony wondered, tapping at the decorative dagger that had been part of his wedding costume. “So I won’t be entirely useless.”

"Oh I can think of uses for you," Bucky joked. "Let me see." It was gold and jeweled and probably would shatter or bend on contract with armor. Not even silver, which would help against a monster. But they could probably sell it for a medium bow. If Tony could shoot. "You know how to handle a crossbow?"

Tony laughed outright. “Probably not by Witcher standards, but I can manage to hit the side of a stable, usually.”

Crossbows were not terribly expensive, didn't require a lot of strength or skill. "Just don't hit me," Bucky said. "We'll be good."

“I can manage that,” Tony said confidently enough. “But also, a carving knife. So I can _make_ things.”

Bucky nodded. It was a good day to begin a journey. Weapons were acquired, as well as functional clothing for Tony, and they were on their way before the sun was too high in the sky. Bucky grinned up at the clouds. Perfect.

* * *

“Perfect,” Bucky said in disgust, looking at the bridge with a scowl. He directed that scowl at Tony, seemingly by accident, as the grey horse that Tony had cheerfully started calling Dummy, came to a halt near Bucky’s mare, lowered his nose to the ground and lipped at the grass. “A _bridge_. What happened to the ferry?”

“I live an entire continent away,” Tony reminded him. “What’s wrong with the bridge? It looks sturdy enough.”

“A bridge? Over the Hudson? Has everyone gone mad over the last twenty years? Lost their sense entirely?” 

“I suppose that’s possible. But you’re going to have to back up and tell me what’s wrong with the bridge? Can your magic horse not cross running water or something?”

Bucky pointed. “Look closer, Prince. Under the support, near the bank. Do you see something that looks remarkably like stone feet poking out?”

Tony squinted. “I see rocks. Why, what is it?”

“It’s a troll,” Bucky said with a sigh. “A troll-bridge.”

“Oh come on,” Tony protested. “That’s just a story.” He hesitated, eyeing Bucky’s sour expression. “Isn’t it?”

“According to legend, trolls are creatures born of the earth, like stone. They can’t exist in sunlight because it’ll turn them back to the stone they were born of. So much for legend. They’re really clumsy, and a little stupid, and very, very strong. They like to build things -- this one probably made the bridge. And they like to drink. And sometimes, they eat people. Especially if you don’t have the toll to cross.”

“Oh.” Tony squinted at the bridge again. “So... what do we do?” If it was actually made of stone, Tony’s crossbow quarrels wouldn’t be more than annoyance.

“How brave are you feeling?” Bucky asked, drawing them back a little. 

“If I could face marrying Tiberius Stone, I can face a troll,” Tony said, probably only a little more confident than he actually felt. Whatever had to be done, had to be done, however he felt about it, right?

“Trolls can be bargained with,” Bucky said. “But it’s like to not want to do that, if it recognizes me. As a Witcher, I mean. I’ve not killed so very many trolls myself, but other witchers have. Trolls hold a massive grudge. So, what I need you to do, is go up and ask what the toll is. Once it gives you its word, it has to let us cross, unless we’ve insulted it. So-- best you ask, so it doesn’t raise the price to unreasonable.”

Tony took a breath. “Okay. Negotiations. Yeah. I can do that. You... wait here so it doesn’t realize you’re a Witcher, then.” He eyed the pile of stone that Bucky thought looked like a foot, then kneed Dummy forward.

There wasn’t actually a troll, maybe. Bucky was imagining things because it was his job as a Witcher to be paranoid, but it was just a weird pile of stones, and Tony would get to the other side of the bridge and then he could tease Bucky about it for the rest of the day.

The pile of stones shifted, drew itself under the bridge like someone sleeping on a cold night might pull their foot under the covers. 

“Traveler--” a voice said, louder than anything Tony had heard before. Even the time one of his experiments went awry and Rhodey spent the whole day complaining about ringing in his ears.

What Bucky had described as a foot were, in fact, toes. Grubby, bare toes.

The troll crawled out from under the bridge. It wore a vest of what looked like entire cow hides held together with rope stitches. Carried a bag so large on its back that it might have put Tony and Dummy in the bag without crowding them. Around its neck hung a cluster of moonstones, casting light on a face that vaguely resembled that of a bat carved from stone.

“Oh holy _shit_ ,” Tony whispered, backing Dummy a good dozen paces, just to be far enough away that it didn’t cramp his neck to look up into the thing’s face. Dummy, for his part, wanted to go even farther, which only proved the animal’s good sense. Unfortunately, they _needed_ to cross the Hudson. Tony swallowed hard. “Bridgekeeper,” he said. “What toll will you take for my companion and I to cross?”

“Two man, two horse,” the troll said, squinting down at Tony. “Ten oren. Or good, strong rope.”

The troll took a lumbering step forward, foot nearly the same size as Tony was laying down. The damn thing was _huge_ , big enough that it was probably cramped under the bridge.

“Ten oren, or a good rope, and you’ll let both of us and our horses cross.” Tony repeated. “Have I your word, bridgekeeper?”

“That toll,” the troll said. “Word.” 

“Very well,” Tony said, and his voice almost didn’t shake. “I will go discuss it with my companion, and we will see if we have ten orens.” He backed Dummy farther away before turning him to ride back down the road to Bucky.

“I’m going to guess you heard it,” Tony said as he pulled up by Bucky.

“Hard to miss it,” Bucky said. “The part of the legend that says trolls cause rockslides? That part’s true. As it happens, we have ten orens and rather a lot of good rope.” He bounced the rope in his palm for a moment, as if weighing it. “Give him the rope. We can always get more.”

“You’re the boss,” Tony said. He took the coil from Bucky and slung it over his shoulder.

Dummy took some convincing to go back toward the bridge at all. Tony couldn’t blame him at all. The troll was still there, waiting, patient as a stone.

“Bridgekeeper, we have brought you rope, as agreed.”

The troll reached out a huge hand, one finger extended. The rope, when dangling from that digit, looked like nothing more than a child’s yo-yo, missing its spindle. “Good rope.” The troll sniffed at it, then sneezed, nearly knocking them all over in the breeze. “Good rope. Good toll. You go.”

“Thank you,” Tony said formally. He edged Dummy around the massive creature -- not that he could swing wide enough to be out of its reach, not if he wanted to actually mount the bridge -- and paused just at the foot of the bridge to turn and wave to Bucky.

Bucky nudged his mare, and Widow trotted over, horsey nose in the air as if offended by the troll’s very existence, but unwilling to make issue out of it.

“ _Witcher_ ,” the troll grumbled, the bass thrumming voice making Tony’s bones shiver. 

“I’m no enemy of yours,” Bucky said, giving a bow from horseback. “And no desire to be one.”

Tony bit his lip nervously. Would the troll keep its word? Bucky had said it would, but what if he’d been wrong? Dummy danced under him, picking up on his tension. “We just want to cross and be gone, bridgekeeper.”

“It’s a good rope, quite thick, and sturdy. Tony, what would you say the tensile load bearing strength of that rope is? What, six hundred pounds, at least,” Bucky said, raising his voice a little to be heard over the troll’s irate grumbling.

“Oh, at least,” Tony agreed. “Probably closer to eight. You can move a lot of rocks with that rope.”

The troll sat down with a thud that shook the entire area, still studying the length of rope in its palm. “Good rope. You go.”

Bucky didn’t waste any time, giving Widow her head and was close to a canter before he passed Tony on the bridge. “Come on, let’s move before it changes its mind.”

Dummy followed Widow without Tony’s urging, more than eager for an excuse to get as far from the troll as possible.

It wasn’t until they were across the bridge and half a league past when Tony looked down and realized his hands were still shaking. “Well, that was. Something.”

“I didn’t want to fight it, if I didn’t have to,” Bucky said. “Trolls die hard. And-- it will keep the bridge in good repair, and drink away all the toll it collects. And they don’t like to be cheated, which seems fair. Trolls aren’t evil. Not most of the time, anyway. But they were enslaved for a while, to build some of the fortresses in the south. And when the fortresses were done, the kings had no need for trolls. Hired witchers to drive them off. Kill them all. A dark time, and they’ve never quite forgiven or forgotten.”

“Can’t say I blame them for that,” Tony admitted. “That was still a bit terrifying.”

Bucky nodded. “They can throw rocks the size of wagons. And they heal quickly. The best way to kill a troll, if you should ever need to, is poison. Their hearts -- all three of them -- beat so quickly that poison is soon carried to every part of the body.”

“I’ll... keep that in mind.” Personally, Tony hoped never to see another troll again. He glanced back over his shoulder, even though they were too far away to see it, even if it hadn’t crawled back under the bridge, and shuddered. “How far can we ride today?” He wanted as much road as possible between him and that bridge.

Bucky laughed and leaned over the space between his horse and Tony’s to plant a quick kiss on Tony’s mouth. “I don’t know. Let’s find out.” He nudged Widow and chirrupped at her. Within a few seconds, they were pulling away.

“Rude,” Tony said. “Come on, Dummy, we’re not going to let them beat us, are we?” He kicked Dummy into a faster pace, already knowing he couldn’t catch them unless Bucky allowed it, but laughing anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lovely art by feignedsobriquet

Rissberg.

Towering monstrosity to the ego of men who had learned at the feet of elves in their kindness, and then slaughtered the elves. 

It was ugly and magnificent. Sprawling and full of the smartest people in the world. And the dumbest in the entire universe. Men, who would never figure out when not to meddle. The men who had given rise to Witchers. And monsters.

Who were monsters, wearing human skins.

And they were the only hope that Tony might have.

Typical.

Bucky made his face into a mask. He wasn’t impressed with the wonder of Rissberg.

“One giant tower for the pigeons to shit on,” he said to Tony. “They brew good beer. And-- well, some of the sorcerers there aren’t complete assholes.”

“As long as we can find someone who isn’t one hundred percent a dick,” Tony muttered, staring up at the tower. “And maybe find someone who will let me look at the inner supports, because that thing should _not_ be able to stand, that high, with just stone and mortar. You think they keep it up with magic?”

“Dragon bones,” Bucky said. “Or, that’s the myth. I wasn’t born yet, when they built it, so I can’t say for certain.” The path was steep enough up to the gate that they couldn’t ride, but had to lead the horses, and pause regularly for breaks. Intentional, as an army of men would have trouble getting inside. And annoying.

“They have a loading dock under the keep,” Bucky said. “They bring supplies in by water and haul them up with a counterweight. I’ve been told it’s not magic, but math. I’m not sure I know the difference.”

Tony laughed. “Yeah, we’ve got some counterweight cabinets in Manhattan. Mostly for getting serving trays up stairs; they’re not quite up to an entire keep’s worth of supplies. It’s actually pretty simple math. I can show you sometime.”

“I suppose I’ll have to trust you,” Bucky said. They finally made the gate, and the horses were both extremely cranky. “We’ll get you into a barn soon. You can go with the grooms, and try not to bite anyone. As soon as we get through the gate.”

Inside the castle walls-- well, he took a step back to watch Tony’s expression. The whole inside of the mountain had been carved away, and the castle, which looked barely size enough for a garrison, was in fact, an entire city. “As I said. Lifts.”

He pointed. “But first, we get to stand in line to make a petition to the gatemaster.”

Tony dragged his eyes off the massive construction to follow Bucky’s finger. “Petition,” he repeated. “Just what does that entail, dare I wonder?”

“I don’t know. Let’s see how much things have changed, shall we?” Bucky put a hand on the small of Tony’s back and gave him a little nudge. “Let me do the talking.”

Talking wasn’t exactly what Bucky did. He sucked in a breath, concentrated on his honor as a Witcher, on the things inside himself that made him Other. Not human. Witcher. A creature made of chaos, enclosed in a human shell.

People scrambled to get out of their way, until Bucky cleared a path all the way to the front of the line.

The man at the desk glanced up--

And Bucky’s mask crumpled.

“ _Steve_?”

“Bucky!”

Tony looked back and forth between them, eyebrows raised. He stepped back half a step to study Steve, then hummed. “You don’t look like the usual sort of mage.”

“And you don’t look like the usual sort of monster,” Steve retorted, not even looking at Tony. “But they seem to end up in the vicinity of witchers. What do you want?”

“Nice to see you, too,” Bucky said.”We need tutoring for Tony, who’s experienced a conduit moment. I can pay.”

“How much?”

“Somewhat more than four marks,” Bucky said.

“I sense there’s a story behind that one,” Tony muttered. “I’m not actually convinced I need training so much as I need quick passage to the other side of the continent.”

“You need training,” Bucky said, and Steve grimaced.

“Much as I hate to agree with him--” Steve took a breath. “An untrained mage is a danger. Not only to himself, but to everyone around him. And a temptation, to those who walk a darker path. Blood, liver, heart. All of these from a sorcerer? Can make powerful potions and relics. If you can’t defend yourself--”

Bucky scoffed. “Always so dramatic. Will you help us?”

“Maybe. You still owe me,” Steve said.

“Really? We’re gonna do this now?” Bucky sighed. “Sure. Get it out of the way. You get one free.” He braced himself for the blow and closed his eyes.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Tony was quick, when he wanted to be. When Bucky squinted an eye open, Tony was standing in front of Bucky, arms spread protectively, jaw set. “Don’t even dare.”

“Kitten’s got claws,” Steve said. “Cute. Excuse me.” He made a twisting gesture with one hand and Tony was suddenly on the other side of Bucky.

Bucky opened his mouth to protest-- this wasn’t Tony’s fight, and Steve could just leave him out of it, when he felt skin against his jaw and his head was tipped.

And Steve kissed him.

Bucky managed -- barely -- to not react to it. He didn’t bite Steve’s lip, or draw him in, or even push him away. He just waited for it to be over. Then, when Steve pulled back, he said, “So how’s Peggy?”

“Retired,” Steve said. “Married. Getting _old_. Still beautiful, of course, but she walked away from the Brotherhood oh, fifteen, twenty years ago.”

Bucky turned, finding Tony at his back, just standing there. Eyes wide, mouth twisted. “Tony,” Bucky said, hoping to all the gods that Tony would understand. “This is Steve of Rogers. My--”

“His husband.”

“ _Ex_. Husband. We severed the knot a long time ago.”

“You sure about that?” Tony asked. “Looks like maybe you didn’t get all the roots out.”

“I’m sure,” Bucky said. “This is Tony of Stark. My Gift of Surprise.”

Steve laughed, threw his head back, one hand smacking against his own chest. “Well, you do get tangled up in Destiny, don’t you? You can have your old rooms for the duration of your stay. They haven’t been used in years. I’ll send someone to take Tony to meet the rest of the acolytes. Five marks, at least.” He held out his hand, expectantly.

Tony hummed and turned his back on them both, ostensibly checking Dummy’s hooves for stones picked up on the narrow path up.

Steve’s mouth twisted into a grin. “And jealous, too.”

“Well, he hasn’t figured out I’m a lost cause,” Bucky said. “Thanks awfully.” He all but threw five marks on the floor at Steve’s feet. He knew the way to his rooms. Someone would show Tony the way; everyone in Rissberg livery had been there for decades. They’d all know where to find him. And chasing after Tony would only make them both look foolish.

Tony needed time to process.

And Bucky--

Needed to go wash his mouth out.

* * *

Tony wandered the streets of Rissberg, Dummy at his heels, obedient as an oversized dog. He wanted to get lost in the narrow, winding streets, but that wasn’t going to happen, not with that central tower looming over everything like an overlarge compass. So he settled for just wandering, listening to merchants hawking their wares and watching children dart in and out of the throngs, laughing and shoving, and trying his damndest not to think about Bucky and his _ex-husband_ , apparently.

When he’d thought Steve was going to punch Bucky, he’d been angry. But it was _nothing_ to the flare of hot jealousy and fury that flared at that kiss.

Bucky was _his_ , he wanted to snarl -- but maybe that wasn’t quite the case. _Tony_ was _Bucky’s_ gift, but nothing said Bucky had to belong to Tony in return.

It lurched through his guts, heavy and hot like some kind of beast. “Could’ve _warned_ me,” Tony grumbled, kicking at a loose stone.

For a while, he considered making his way up to the tower and presenting himself immediately, without finding Bucky again. Let Bucky stew in it, if it even mattered. But that felt wrong, like putting his tunic on backward.

His destiny, tugging at him like a dog on a lead.

“ _Fuck_ destiny.” He kicked at another stone.

The stone rolled across the ground, bounced, and was absently caught by a boy, younger than Tony by five or six years at least. Maybe more. “Sounds like someone stole your breakfast,” the boy said. He held up the stone, made a pass in front of it with his other hand, and then murmured a word. The stone hovered there a few inches over his palm. 

“You’re an acolyte?” Tony asked, unable to pull his eyes from the hovering stone.

“Hmm. Yep. It’s my liberty day. Did Destiny bring you here, or just bad luck?” The stone clattered back to the pavement. “Uh, still need to work on that one. Balance. It’s tricky.”

“Not sure,” Tony admitted. “I did a thing, recently, and apparently I need training now.” He rolled his eyes and picked up the stone, turning it over in his hands. It looked like an ordinary cobblestone. “It hasn’t been the best few weeks. Apparently, Destiny’s made me her bitch.” He shook his head, tossed the stone up and then caught it as it fell. “I’m Tony.”

“Peter,” he said. “My conduit moment-- I turned myself into a spider. My master says I’m very, _very_ lucky that I managed to change back at all. Apparently, a lot of people do it, and poof, they just go missing. After a while, no one notices the goose that acts a little weird, and they never find the girl again.”

“That sounds... harrowing. I somehow, uh, portaled myself across the continent, more or less.”

“Oh, that’s exciting,” Peter said. “Did it feel weird, getting all squished out like that to make the trip, or did you just fall and find yourself somewhere else. Are you hungry? You look like you’re hungry. If you’re gonna be one of us, we can all eat on the master’s chit, we can get eggs and some bacon, there’s a fry up just down the way. Come on. You can leave the rock. There’s lots of them.”

Tony wasn’t particularly hungry, but Peter looked to be about that age when he wasn’t so much a boy as an appetite with hair, so Tony followed him gamely down the path. “I don’t even think I fell,” he said. “Though my memory is pretty hazy. But I was _there_ , and angry and scared, and then I was just... somewhere else.”

“You must have wanted to be not there pretty bad,” Peter said. “I was trying to get away from a guy who liked to punch me in the face. And I just thought-- if I was really small, he wouldn’t see me. If I’d known I could do that, I might have tried being something else. Like… a really big spider. Or a dragon. Dragons are cool.”

Tony huffed. “Just as well you didn’t. Imagine if you’d turned yourself into a monster or a dragon, and then suddenly your whole town is trying to kill you.”

“Do you suppose that’s how there are monsters? The master just says they’re physical expressions of chaos, and that we-- need to learn to control chaos. Sounds a little bit like… you know, it could be.”

Peter flashed something at the fry up’s counter and obtained a tray of food for both of them, dragging Tony over to a table. Dummy immediately stuck his nose in the tray, relieving it of the apple that was in a dish.

Tony shoved at the horse’s head, pushing Dummy back so at least he wasn’t crunching his pilfered snack in Tony’s ear. “Maybe. I don’t know much about magic or chaos.”

“Well, duh,” Peter said. “If you already knew it, you wouldn’t need to be here, would you? But you know, not everyone who has a conduit moment, stays. Sometimes, you only have the one in you. Or a few. The Master will be able to tell in a few lessons.”

“I _can’t_ stay,” Tony said. He picked up a piece of bacon and bit off the end. “I have to get home, I have to fix... everything.”

“That’s a big job, fixing everything,” Peter said, folding a pancake and stuffing it in his mouth, talking the whole time. “I mean, the world’s a big place, and there are a lot of problems.”

“I have to fix...” Tony took a breath and launched into his story, telling Peter about his scheming advisor and fiance, his appearance in Bucky’s room, skipping past the whole Sweet Brandy incident but sketching in that Bucky had claimed him, before he’d been born, as the Law of Surprise, and how they’d planned to get Tony trained enough to be stable and then jump back home. If there was a home left to go to.

“But then it turns out his _ex_ is here,” Tony added glumly, slumping against the table and putting his head in his hands.

“Oh, was there stabbing? Sometimes that can get messy. Stabbings, I mean.”

“Worse. There was _kissing_.” Tony scrubbed his hands over his face. “And he just. Just _moved_ me out of the way. Like that!” He waved one hand. “I can’t fight someone who can do that.”

“Well, it’s usually stabbing,” Peter said. “You know, I mean, I’m only fifteen, but-- some of the Brotherhood, they’re like _centuries_ old. And half of them are stupidly beautiful. Part of the initiation, for certain sects. So-- lots of marriages, lots of severing the knot. _Lots_ of stabbing.”

That didn’t make Tony feel any better. Witchers were long-lived, too, if a monster didn’t get them early. Who even knew how old this _Steve_ guy was? And Tony was just a man, with a man’s lifespan. Could he possibly be more than a momentary distraction for Bucky? The few bites he’d taken rolled over in his stomach, and he pushed the rest of his food across the table at Peter. “Fuck Destiny,” he muttered.

“It’s not a one way rope,” Peter said. “Destiny. It doesn’t just tie you to him. You-- can find each other, no matter how far you’re apart. No matter what happens. It’s important. He can’t move on without you. Or leave you behind.”

“He didn’t seem to have any trouble leaving me at the gate,” Tony muttered, aware he was being petulant and petty and not really caring. Dummy nudged him in the back, hard, and Tony sighed. If even the damn _horse_ was telling him to find a ladder and get over himself...

“I am going to find a way to sneak up on that damned mage and punch him in his perfect teeth,” Tony said.

“You should probably learn a few defensive spells before you do that. Or at least a good shield,” Peter suggested. Peter didn’t even seem to notice that he’d eaten his way through Tony’s breakfast too. “You wanna play hookie for the day? We can go to the greenhouse. No one’ll find us there.”

Tony considered it. “Yes,” he decided. “Let me just find a safe place to leave this Dummy.” Let Bucky wonder where he’d gone.

* * *

_I can never decide if I want to kill you, or kiss you, whenever I see you, jerk._

“Well,” Bucky said to his empty room. “First hit’s free.” He and Steve-- Gods, what a disaster that had been. Young and stupid and full of hormones and suddenly coming into their own power. They’d barely been into their second decade before they were wed. Severed the knot within six years. Bucky wouldn’t stay in one place, and Steve wouldn’t leave the school. And then by the time Steve was ready to go out, he’d fallen in love with a girl, a fellow mage.

And then there’d been--

“I am not rehashing all of Steve and mine’s mistakes over the last hundred years with an empty room,” Bucky said. Widow wasn’t even there to snort at him. 

The bourbon was still where it always was, and Bucky poured himself a drink. Swished the first one and spit in the basin before pouring another one.

He wasn’t stupid. (Shut up, it was not up for debate.) 

And he’d seen the way Tony looked at him.

He poured a third drink, and a fourth one, trying to let the fermented grain sooth his restless spirit. Tony was angry and hurt and had a right to be.

In fact, Bucky would be willing to bet that this was, in fact, Steve’s plan. Not as a way to get Bucky back, or anything so delusional as that, but to test the new relationship. To see if Tony had the right stuff. By whatever ridiculous metrics Steve was setting.

It was probably petty revenge for the thing with Sharon. Okay, Bucky would own it. It was absolutely deserved.

But what else did you do with ex-lovers you’d known for seventy years? You couldn’t very well send flowers on the date of your severing.

“Fuck.”

Bucky took one more drink for courage, and then got up. He needed to track down his Surprise before Tony thought-- 

Whatever he was thinking. Tony was young. Still human. Bucky was never sure he remembered what being young or human was like.

He closed his eyes, breathing. Where-- where was his Surprise.

_Two people, bound by destiny, will always find each other._

“What the hells are you doing in the _greenhouse_?” Bucky demanded of the empty air, then decided to put his question to Tony directly.

Who knew. Maybe Tony would feel him coming. Like a storm.

Ha.

Melodramatic much?

Even with the binding of destiny to lead him, it took him longer than it should have to find Tony in the greenhouse. He finally stumbled over Tony -- almost literally -- sitting on the floor with an acolyte, both their heads bowed over something between them.

“No, no,” the acolyte was saying, youthful face solemn and earnest, “you’re trying to _push_ it out, and that doesn’t work, it won’t respond to that. You have to let it _flow_ through you. Like sap flowing through a tree.” He reached out to touch the trunk of a potted sapling beside him.

Tony hummed. “You keep saying that, but I don’t--” He glanced up, eyes widening. “Bucky!” He looked around quickly, then back up at Bucky. “What are you doing here?”

Bucky found one of the workbenches, half covered in pots growing various weedy looking plants, and sat down. He took a breath, trying to order his thoughts. “Attempting to figure out what you need from me, to make this situation right,” he said, finally. “I-- don’t know you well enough yet to guess, so you’ll have to help me.”

The acolyte eyed Bucky. “This is your Witcher?” He nodded before Tony even answered, and popped to his feet. “I’ll let you talk.”

Tony scowled up at the boy. “Coward,” he accused, without heat.

The boy just grinned. He dropped a smooth, rounded stone in Tony’s lap. “Keep practicing! I think you almost had it!”

“See you around, Peter,” Tony called, but the acolyte -- Peter, apparently -- was already skipping back and turning to find his way back out of the labyrinthine building. Tony watched him go, thumb rubbing idly at the surface of the stone, before turning his attention back to Bucky. “Which situation would that be?”

“The one that’s got you thrumming like a necromancer’s study,” Bucky said. “You’re angry and upset. Tell me how to make it better.”

Tony grunted, dropping his eyes back to the stone, tracing the thin vein of color that ran through it. “Can’t,” he said shortly. “No cure for being stuck with a Surprise you didn’t want, except maybe time. Witchers are basically immortal, right? So it won’t be long, relatively speaking, until you’re free again.”

“I’m impressed,” Bucky said. “Everything you just said… was wrong.” He shook his head, letting his hair hang around his face. He really needed to get a trim. Or a hairband. Too much hair let an enemy get a handhold. His old trainer’s voice, reminding him of that, by throwing him off the training wall. By his hair. “I’m not immortal. I can be killed, just like anything that bleeds. In fact, a great many witches have met their end that way. I don’t know a single one, however, that’s died from old age. So-- semi-immortal, maybe. Like an elf.”

“Great,” Tony said, meaning anything but. “I’ll make a note. Doesn’t invalidate anything else I said, though.”

“And, who knows, you, yourself, might also be close to unaging,” Bucky continued. “Those who work with chaos are immune to the effects of aging. Steve is very nearly as old as I am. We knew each other when we were boys, before-- before any of this.”

Tony shifted, but still wasn’t looking at him.

“None of which, I’m sure, are your main points,” Bucky said. “Which is that I didn’t want you, and am now, eagerly awaiting your death of old age in order to reunite with a lover that I left behind more than fifty years ago and-- to be fair, have not much missed.”

“You didn’t exactly push him off,” Tony muttered, sullen. “He decides he wants to give it another round, there’s not a damned thing I can do about it but stand aside and hope. _Destiny_ is a thin thread to stitch together a relationship of any kind.”

“And my wants have no part in this contest of wills between you and Steve,” Bucky said. He felt a tinge of indignation at that, as if he had nothing to do with it. “You think you have no appeal to me? That you’re unwanted, undesired? Unloved? Just something I got stuck with, like a stray cat? You’re wrong about that.”

Tony’s shoulders hunched. “You _said_ you’d have tried to escape it, if you could have,” he pointed out. 

“Sure-- because you would have been a baby, and what sort of callous fool takes a babe into battle? I didn’t want anyone to need me, to depend so utterly on me that they would die if something happened to me. And-- to be perfectly arrogant, I thought I didn’t need anyone. The problem, sometimes, with being as old as I am. You look around one afternoon and realize you don’t have any friends anymore. They’re all old or married off, or they’ve died. And that hurts, each one a little crack, until you don’t want to make any friends anymore, because you can’t take it. Not one more crack. That’s what I thought. That’s what I believed.”

He looked over at Tony, cringing in on himself, aching and miserable. 

“And then I saw you,” Bucky said. “And none of that mattered anymore, because-- you were there. And I belonged to you.”

“Backwards,” Tony told his rock. “ _I’m_ the Gift.”

“And one I don’t deserve,” Bucky said. “Yet, here we are.”

“Here we are,” Tony sighed. “I thought...” He heaved a breath. “I always thought things would be better, when you came for me. There would be one person who wanted _me_ , and not my throne or my money or my work. A bond forged by destiny, unbreakable. And of course that’s... that’s stupid. A child’s fantasy. I just, I didn’t stop to think about it that way until--” He broke off, waving a hand vaguely.

“And here you are, stuck with a disappointing Witcher,” Bucky said. “Who has had decades to develop a rather-- what did Peggy call me? Taciturn to the point of turnipcy. Who has missed the last twenty years because he rather stupidly got stabbed by a spriggan and got turned into a block of ice. And who has the bad sense to not realize that Steve of Rogers was looking to make as much of a mess for me as I have made for him. He did it to get under your skin. And mine.”

“He’s an ass,” Tony said. “Mages are good at pushing buttons, I’ve heard. He just made me wonder what... what I have to offer. Especially since someone else is sitting on my throne and spending my treasury.”

“And why do you need anything to offer? Is it not enough, just to be you?” Bucky reached out his hand and tipped Tony’s chin. “I like… you. Not your money or your throne or your work. Just you. That’s all you’ve needed to be.”

Tony looked dubious, but at least he was looking back at Bucky again. “People get tired of me. Even my friends.”

“I’ve had the same horse for eighty years _at least_ ,” Bucky said. “I don’t get tired of things. I’ve had this jacket since stiff ruff collars were in fashion. Tell me they’re not back in fashion, I hate those things.”

Tony’s mouth twitched toward something like a smile. “No. But now I want to see you in one.”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” Bucky said. “Not even threatening me with terrible fashion choices. This won’t -- ever -- be easy. Destiny bound us together, she didn’t exactly drop a rulebook on our heads. But I promise-- I will never hurt you on purpose. And I’ll do my best not to hurt you by accident. All right?”

Tony looked up into Bucky’s face for a long moment, searching. Testing, somehow. Finally, he drew a deep breath and nodded. “All right.” He hesitated, and added, “No more kissing Steve?”

“It wasn’t my intention to kiss him in the first place,” Bucky said. “Thought he was gonna deck me, the punk. Would have deserved it. Last time we saw each other, I nearly drowned him. And got him in trouble with his girl.”

“I was going to shoot him if he hurt you,” Tony said, jaw setting pugnaciously.

There was something warm and glowing inside Bucky’s chest. Like a star. Most normal people were afraid of sorcerers. And Witchers, for that matter. And here Tony was, defending Bucky’s non-existent honor. “I think, even without Destiny, I would like you, Tony of Stark. No matter what.”

Tony looked startled at that, and then heartbreakingly vulnerable. “Really?”

“Really,” Bucky said. 


	6. Chapter 6

Bucky had left Rissberg only a few days after Tony had become an acolyte at the Tower. Mage training wasn’t free; the options were paying a fairly heavy tuition or being indentured to one of the mages in-residence.

Tony didn’t have the second option; his duties and responsibilities lay elsewhere. Perforce, they needed money. So Bucky had taken a few commissions -- mages, apparently, were always in need of various parts of certain monsters -- to raise the coin.

Tony kept careful track of his expenses; he intended to repay every oren once he’d regained his throne.

He’d kissed Bucky farewell somewhat desperately and made him promise to be as careful and safe as it was possible to be. He’d watched Bucky ride off on Widow’s back, expecting to spend the intervening weeks fretting over Bucky’s safe return.

He’d been wrong about that. Training kept him _far_ too busy to worry about anything other than whether his pronunciation of the Elder phrases was exact enough and whether one of his fellow acolytes was trying to sabotage him. Peter’s friendliness aside, the acolytes had banded swiftly into little groups, each of which tried to outdo the others in every trial. Or, if they couldn’t outperform the others, they would ensure that at least no one else outperformed _them_.

Tony thought of Bucky in the early mornings, in the few moments he had before they were all roused for the day’s lesson; and in the evenings, when he collapsed, exhausted, onto his cot. He _dreamed_ of Bucky quite often. But rarely in his waking hours was he given the luxury of so much thought.

Peter was the child of a mage -- although his parents were both dead, and before moving to Rissberg, had been in the custody of his aunt and uncle. Which meant very little, except that it seemed most of the other students hated him. And he knew a lot of shortcuts.

“Come here,” he said, one day, tugging Tony away from an actually much wanted lunch. “I found one, and I don’t want to share.”

Tony grabbed the plate and snuck away with Peter, stuffing food in his mouth with one hand while trying to demand where he was being dragged off to.

“Fwa ah?” Tony chewed and swallowed, and tried again. “Found what? What are we doing?”

“There was a merchant here today, from Cintra,” Peter explained. “And he had a whole clan of them. Cleansed, you know. Poor bastards. But one of them fell and skinned his hand…” Peter pointed to the side of the road, steep as it was. “Here, look, use the farseer, on the side of the road, there, do you see it?”

He handed Tony a tube with glass at either end. Not enchanted, but a mechanical thing. Beautiful, really. 

Tony focused, and looked where Peter was pointing. Growing, just down the side of the cliff -- the road was very steep going up to the castle, and the roads were treacherous, as he’d discovered when they’d come in the first time -- was a tiny bunch of blue flowers. 

“What are those? I’ve never seen anything like them.” Tony scanned the cliffs for more, but there was only the one little cluster.

“ _Feainnewedd_ ,” Peter said. “Elf flowers. They’re a direct result of the chaos in an elf’s blood. You know, they taught humans everything about magic and how to control it. They were here long before we were. And then we killed them for it. But-- but… the flowers. They’re really potent. We need to get them before someone else does.”

Tony hummed, using the farseer to examine the road on either side of the bundle of flowers. “Should be doable,” he mused. “We’ll have to be fast, though. I’m due back to lessons soon.”

Peter nodded. “As long as someone doesn’t come up with a big wagon train-- or a fast moving carriage.” The road wasn’t built for the amount of traffic it saw, even in a given day. There’d been at least two bad wrecks even since Tony had been there, and Peter said that was typical, really. “Give your witcher a shock, if you can portal by the time he gets back.” He checked the road again. “Looks clear, let’s run.”

They dashed through the streets and up the road toward the cliffs, dodging horses and carts and messengers. “Won’t they just,” Tony panted, “just take it away from us?”

“Only if they catch us,” Peter said, laughing. Tony was pretty sure he was doing something magical, no one was that light on their feet, or that graceful. “And then only if they’re believers. Most people don’t believe anything’s special about elves at all.”

“Even the Masters?” Tony was dubious. Surely, even if they didn’t believe that elves’ blood was magical, they’d know what the flowers were, if they were so potent.

“Again, they need to catch us, first,” Peter said. “And I’m pretty good with mixing potions. I can make a tincture from it, a few drops in your morning coffee? You won’t know what hit yo--” Peter yelped, dodging away from a wagon that hadn’t been there a moment before, it seemed.

“Fuck!” Tony grabbed Peter, righting him before he overbalanced and fell. “We’re not going to have anything if we fall off the cliff and die,” he pointed out. “Maybe we should slow down a little.”

“You worry too much,” Peter said, even if he was holding onto Tony’s shirt tight enough that his knuckles were white with strain. “You want to beat Flash’s group this lesson or not?”

Tony did, in fact, kind of want to rub the arrogant little snot’s nose in abject failure. “Yeah, okay. Just check before you barrel around the curve.”

They finally made it to the edge of the road-- the flowers were blooming on the side of the cliff face, about four feet down. “Luckily,” Peter said, throwing something white into Tony’s hands, “I brought rope. Wrap it around that post there, and hold on, I’ll climb down, and you can pull me back up.”

“Yep, got it.” Tony wrapped the rope around the pole, a sturdy, twice-wrapped knot that should hold even if the rope slipped from his own hands. “Right, down you go, then.” He wrapped it around his arm a couple of times and tested his footing.

Peter scrambled down the slope like some sort of spider-monkey, finding handholds or toeholds where Tony would have sworn none existed. He very carefully uprooted the flowers and wrapped their roots in a cloth before tucking them into his tunic, leaning heavily on the rope as he did so. “Good job, that’s great, haul me up!” He gave Tony a thumbs up.

Tony started hauling in the rope. Peter was a scrawny kid, and Tony had grown up hefting cannon shot and ballista bolts. Though it had been a while since he’d actually done any lifting. “You could help a little,” he grunted, pulling in another length.

“I did all the work getting us down here,” Peter teased, but he started “walking” up the wall. 

That was faster, somewhat. Tony pulled hand over hand until Peter was reaching up over the ledge, then leaned forward to grab Peter’s wrist to drag him up the rest of the way.

“Look, look,” Peter said, pulling the clump of flowers out of his shirt. “Can you just _feel_ it?”

And Tony could; there was something buzzing and powerful and alive about the little blossoms. Sad, but sweet, and the smell coming off them was _amazing_. It reminded him, somehow, of his mother’s perfume, so long ago, barely remembered.

“Wow. That’s a lot of chaos for such a little vessel.” Tony touched the petals gently, stroked a finger down one leaf. “Do you think--”

The carriage that rattled around the curve in the road was coming down the path far too quickly. The horses spooked or the driver overconfident on the narrow road, one or both. There was no time, no time at all to think, to plan, to dodge. One moment he was looking up at the thundering animals, the next there was a terrible wrench in his arm and he was dangling over the side of the cliff.

“Peter!” Tony twisted, trying to look down, half-panicked. “Peter!”

Above them, on the road, the carriage thundered onward. Tony wasn’t sure if they’d even noticed him and Peter standing there.

“Oh crap,” Peter swore, his arms wrapped around one of Tony’s legs and holding onto the rock face with the other hand. “This is _bad--_ ”

“Hang on,” Tony ordered. “Hang tight, I’ll pull us up.” He reached up and grabbed the rope, but as soon as he tried to pull, his elbow flared in white-hot pain. “Shit!” He must have wrenched it when he fell, where it was still wrapped in the rope. “Fuck, I don’t think I can.”

“Tony--” Peter yelled, and a handful of rock broke away from the side. “We don’t have any time-- Portal. Cast the portal spell!”

“I-- I can’t!” He knew the words, but he had yet to actually manifest a deliberate portal. He gritted his teeth and reached out with one hand, whispering the words, hoping, trying to _feel_ the way the energy pooled in his center. Nothing.

“Use the feainnewedd,” Peter said. “Just a _tiny_ bite, each it, the smallest bite you can, or you’re gonna portal us right through the planet.” Peter’s voice was shaking, terrified, and Tony could feel his fingers, leaving deep, bruising dents in Tony’s shin.

Tony looked at the flower that was still clutched in his hand. There wasn’t time for deliberation. He brought it to his mouth and plucked loose two petals. They were odd-tasting, bitter and salty, but he could feel the power flooding through him instantly, roiling like a stormcloud.

His hand slipped on the rope, and he only barely managed to catch it again. Peter yelped as they dropped. They needed to be somewhere else. Tony focused that thought, aimed himself at it. They were going to fall, and they were going to land--

He pointed, and a swirling gap yawned open below them. “Let go!” he told Peter. “It’s okay, let go!” He carefully unwrapped the rope that was still twisted around his injured elbow, his arms shaking with the strain.

Peter didn’t even open his eyes, he just let go, let himself fall backward. Trusting Tony’s magic.

Tony watched him disappear into the misty gap, then took a breath and let go of the rope, falling, falling--

\--a lurch like being in a carriage that had suddenly been overturned--

\--falling through the ceiling of his room to land on his cot. “Fuck,” he gasped.

Peter was laying on the floor, laughing weakly. “Okay, okay, that was-- that was the best. Best, ever!”

“That was a _disaster,_ ” Tony corrected, but he was laughing too, some sort of _oh thank the gods we’re not dead_ hysteria. “Did you manage to even keep any of the flowers?”

Peter raised one hand, clutching two flowers and the tangle of roots. “We might even be able to plant them. Well done us!”

Tony laughed harder. “Yeah, sure, why not? Well done!”

* * *

“Feel more like a butcher than a witcher,” Bucky complained. His pack was full of vials of blood, cuttings of hair and skin. Livers and eyes and spleens and-- it was disgusting, and it smelled horrible.

Widow flicked an ear at him, unconcerned. She rarely was. 

But at least they were on their way back, and with more than enough parts and bits to cover Tony’s lessons.

Bucky wasn’t sure if Tony would have progressed very far. His understanding of things magical, and things human, suggested that they might not have. As he recalled from Steve’s training, it had been at least thirty years before Steve was ready to go out, to earn his keep.

But maybe Tony would know _enough_. After all, he was bound to a Witcher, a gift of Surprise. They could return to Stark, overthrow the usurper and hire a mage to complete Tony’s training. It would work out.

Honestly, it had to, because tramping through the muck after kikimora parts was going to get really damn old, really fast.

He banged on the gate; the sun had set hours ago, but Bucky didn’t want to wait until morning. Someone could either open the door or he could _aard_ it right the fuck down. _I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow the gate in._ Some children’s story he’d heard, decades ago, from his own barely remembered childhood.

“Ho, the castle,” Bucky called. 

It took several minutes, some more banging on the gate, and a bribe to the gatekeepers to get Bucky into the walls. Worth it, if it meant he got to see Widow situated in a warm stall and sleep in a bed, himself.

He was getting soft.

He glanced up at the Tower. Tony was in there; Bucky could feel the tug of their bond. He considered it -- Tony was not, in Bucky’s experience, very particular about schedules. Tony could very well still be awake, hard at his studies.

“Wouldn’t try it, if I’s you,” the gatekeeper said. “Access to the city, ‘ats one thing. Gettin’ into the Tower, now, ‘ats anuvver.”

Fuck it. He was tired and filthy. He'd rent a room in the city for the night and see Tony at first light. Despite the romance of it, he was too old to climb the castle walls. 

He cast one last long look at the tower, wishing-- " _Fine_. Point me in the direction of the cheapest inn where there's a bath."

Bucky got Widow settled and paid one of his last few coins for the room. The damn sorcerers better come through on their bargains or they'd both be going hungry.

The girl was just finishing filling his bath -- she threw a handful of flower petals on the water to make the air smell sweet -- when the room seemed to glow, then dim, odd blue light flickering from nowhere and nothing.

Bucky snatched up his sword, holding it up defensively.

“Bucky! You’re back!” And that was _Tony_ , bright-eyed and smiling and throwing himself into Bucky’s arms, heedless of the sword.

The sword clattered to the floor. Bucky put his arms around Tony and clutched him tight. "Well, that was a surprise," he said. It was unlikely, but Bucky shifted his hand until his ring pressed against Tony's skin. Shapeshifters and nightmares took on the forms of loved ones. But Tony was only solid in his arms.

Tony snuggled in close, like he was trying to burrow under Bucky’s skin. “Missed you,” he murmured. “Yes, I see you checking to make sure I’m not a doppleganger. You think I’d be offended?” He scoffed. “Check all you like.”

"It's a hazard," Bucky murmured. "An easy way to catch someone off guard." He nuzzled at Tony's hair. "I'd hate to have to kill something that looked like you."

“Well, I guess that’s why they do it,” Tony mused. “It’s kind of flattering, I guess, that you think something might use me to get to you like that. In a roundabout way.” He sighed and melted a little more, molding his body against Bucky’s as if he didn’t have any bones at all. “I can stay, right?”

"There's no one else--" Bucky said, "that I would let down my guard around. Of course you can stay. How… the portal, again? Seems to be becoming a habit, you portaling right into my bed."

“At least this time it was on purpose.” Tony pulled back just enough to start unfastening Bucky’s armor.

“You had a purpose, last time,” Bucky teased, tipping Tony’s chin up to catch a kiss. 

Tony returned the kiss warmly. “Mm. Last time I was running away. This time, I was running _to_.”

“It’s good to see you, my gift,” Bucky said. “I missed you. Drowners and kikimara do not make good companions. How are your studies going?” He wasn’t being reserved, either, with helping Tony get off the blasted armor. Bucky slept in the damn stuff most of the time, and while it was in fact very good at its job, it led to a lot of bruises and ill-dreaming. Tony’s clothes, as all acolyte uniforms tended to be, were simple, loose fitting, and ugly. But it wouldn’t matter, as soon as he was out of them.

“Oddly,” Tony said. “I’m terrible at things that should be easy, but surprisingly adept, apparently, at some harder-to-master tricks.” He tugged the last buckle free and shoved the armor off Bucky’s shoulders onto the floor. “Like portals.”

Bucky took a huge breath, the first full one in days. “Gods,” he said. “You poor thing, I reek. The-- I don’t know where the girl went, but she brought me a bath. If we’re very careful, I think we’ll both fit.”

“Yeah?” Tony looked pleased. “Want me to scrub your back?”

Bucky couldn’t help it; he ducked his chin, grinning. Looking at his lover, his gift of surprise, was sometimes like looking right into the sun. So bright and beautiful that Bucky thought how much he didn’t deserve it, and how very grateful he was, anyway.

A handful of dead monsters, and a long nap-- “You are so beautiful.”

Tony flushed. “So are you.” He stepped back and stripped off his acolyte’s tunic in one fluid motion. “Though you’re not wrong about the smell. Kikimara, you said?”

“Among others, but that one most recently, and after the last bath,” Bucky admitted. “Luxuries are few and far between in the swamps. Monsters prefer swamps. I’m not sure why, it’s not good for their complexion at all.”

“But mud baths are supposed to be excellent for the skin,” Tony protested, laughing. He waved at the tub. “You have to get in first. If you sit on me, you’ll squash me.”

“You’re hardly a kitten,” Bucky said, shucking out of his leather pants-- or to be more exact, peeling them off. The nice thing about leather was ease of care. Turning them inside out and letting them lay flat in a steamy room usually did the job. And the inevitable defense against knives, fangs, and claws.

He climbed into the tub, shifting forward as much as he could to make space for Tony. The smell of the water was nice: lilac, jasmine, and rose. 

Tony waited for him to settle, then climbed in behind him. A little water splashed over the sides of the tub onto the floor, but Tony settled in and then reached for a cloth and soap to start cleaning kikimara off Bucky’s skin. “So many scars,” he murmured. Light fingers traced one that trailed most of the way down Bucky’s shoulder.

“Monsters,” Bucky said, then interrupted himself to yawn hugely, “rather object to being slain. They try to return the favor.”

“Terribly rude of them,” Tony complained, laughter in his voice.

The gentle scrubbing of the cloth felt good. Soothing. It traveled down Bucky’s back, over his shoulders and then down his arms and back up, over his ribs and reaching around to his front. “This is nice,” Tony said after a few moments. “Quiet and calm. There isn’t much of either at the Tower.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. Quiet. Calm. There wasn’t much of that in the monster slaying business, either. Or, if there was quiet, it was of the ominous, something is about to pounce variety. “Calm is good. I could get used--” he leaned his cheek against wet knees, leaning forward, feeling the knots in his back slowly unkink. “--get used to it.”

He was a liar. There was no way he could ever stop being a Witcher. They’d have to arrange for something, if Tony was to be King of Stark… some way. Maybe portal arrangements. Why not? Could happen. Or Tony could go with him, sometimes. A king who hunted monsters. Surely his people would appreciate the effort. Maybe give Witchers a good name, for a change.

Tony hummed and put the cloth away. Handfuls of water spilled over Bucky’s skin to rinse off the last of the soap, and then Tony’s hands were pushing into Bucky’s hair with something that smelled of apple blossoms and honey. “Well, we’ll enjoy what we get of it, anyway,” he allowed.

“I’ll enjoy _you_ , and what I get of you, leastways,” Bucky said. A mock-threat, he thought, as he was barely keeping his eyes open as it was.

Tony huffed a small laugh and kissed the back of Bucky’s neck. “I’m sure you will.” He nudged Bucky gently. “Speaking of enjoying, maybe we should go to bed.”

In theory, Bucky agreed with that. He managed to stand up, sloshing more water onto the floor. “Yes, bed,” he said, or thought he said. He got a step, maybe two. The bed looked warm, inviting, and wide. Enough room for Tony and Bucky. And maybe Widow, but she wasn’t invited. Tony laughed again, soft, and gave him a push. The bed--

Was very soft, and Bucky closed his eyes. Just a moment, to clear his head--


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains slightly more smut (until after the picture) and a slightly NSFW picture (in that it's obvious what they're doing, but no actual naughty bits shown)

Morning in the city below the Tower was less anxiety-inducing, at least. Tony was not rudely shaken from sleep before dawn to perform some magical theory test on the spot. 

“Did you think your enemies will wait until you are ready to cast?” the Master would demand of anyone who complained. 

Instead, there was a single bell toll that marked the hour for when Market opened, and the city gradually came alive.

Tony rolled his head to look at Bucky, sprawled next to him, still sound asleep. One arm was wrapped over Tony’s hips, the other tucked under the pillow. He had no doubt that Bucky had completed the commission, but wondered if it would be enough to pay for Tony’s tutoring. Enough for them to _leave_. Every day that passed, knowing Tiberius Stone sat on his throne, knowing that Obadiah Stane had arranged it, was a torment, a frantic itch at the base of his neck that cried out to be righted.

He hoped they could go soon. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to enjoy this morning, as much as he could. A slow, easy waking in a soft bed and his Witcher at his side again. It was the best waking he’d had in weeks. Maybe years, truth to tell.

“You’re taking to the life of a sorcerer with some alacrity,” Bucky said. “A perfect, intentional portal, coming right to me. I’d be impressed, if I hadn’t already known you could figure it.” He hadn’t opened his eyes, or so much as moved, talking in a low voice as if he’d heard the thoughts in Tony’s head.

Tony brushed his fingers down Bucky’s cheek, carded them through Bucky’s hair. “I thought you were asleep. I’m not a sorcerer. Master Yinsen thinks I won’t ever be, even if I stay here for twenty years. I’m just a conduit, a wild talent.”

“Portalling is a useful skill,” Bucky said. He opened one eye, squinting into the dim light. “Among other things, I found a dragon’s nest.”

Tony frowned. “There haven’t been dragons for hundreds of years.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Bucky said. “You’ll sleep better. It wasn’t currently occupied, and I wouldn’t kill a dragon anyway, if I could help it. But there were a few eggshells and some scales. Should be enough. And if we can’t get your kingdom back, it’ll be a good start toward our own fortunes.” He made what seemed like an heroic effort and pulled himself up onto one elbow. “You’re a welcome sight, first thing in the morning. Side of my bedroll’s been powerfully empty, these last weeks.”

“You’re the one who decided I needed schooling,” Tony pointed out, suppressing a smile. “Could’ve been together the whole time.” He shifted a little, rolling onto his back and stretching. “Acolyte’s beds are too narrow to be empty, but they’re cold.”

Bucky grinned and rolled them over together, pinning Tony down on the soft mattress. “Do you need warmed up, my gift?”

“I wouldn’t say no,” Tony allowed, letting the smile tug at the corner of his mouth, feeling a sleepy heat of arousal sliding through his limbs.

“Delightful,” Bucky said, and he rolled his hips, pushing against Tony’s thigh. “I have quite a lot of time to make up for, that you’ve been cold and alone and overworked.” He nuzzled at Tony’s throat, lips brushing over the skin there, tongue flicking out to taste. 

“Yes,” Tony agreed. He tipped his head back, giving more of his throat to Bucky’s gentle exploration. It was nonsense, of course -- not that Tony hadn’t been cold and alone and overworked, but Bucky surely had been even moreso. But he wasn’t about to admit to it, not when Bucky was sending those delightful shudders of sensation down Tony’s skin.

Bucky traced lines of silken heat down Tony’s arms, his chest, dancing fingertips over Tony’s hip, making him squirm. “You are so beautiful,” Bucky murmured, dropping more kisses along Tony’s collarbone, laughing lightly as Tony wrapped one leg over Bucky’s waist and drew them together. “But I see, still _very_ impatient.”

“Weeks,” Tony pointed out, rolling his hips, grinding himself against Bucky’s thigh. “And it’s not like there’s much in the way of privacy in the Tower. What would you have me do?”

“Learn patience, and self restraint. You’ll find it rewarding,” Bucky teased, mouth going even lower to close over one of Tony’s nipples, tongue working the pebbling skin there.

Tony gasped and wrapped his arms around Bucky’s head to keep that mouth where it was, heated and tortuous. “Impatient seems to be working out for me,” he said, laughing breathlessly.

Bucky drew back a little. “But over too soon.” He caught both of Tony’s hands, pinning them to the bed just over his head. “Yes?” His free hand wandered Tony’s body, almost directionless, it seemed, until Tony was twisting in Bucky’s grip, trying to bring those teasing fingers where he wanted them.

A plaintive whine slipped out of Tony’s throat, but he didn’t try to pull his hands free. Bucky would take care of him, he knew, and if the teasing would drive Tony mad in the meanwhile, well, it was a beautiful madness, heat and pleasure and steady build of need, so different from the frantic desperation the Sweet Brandy had given them. “Bucky, oh--!”

“There--” Bucky said. “Here, we have not had much time to discover each other. And I have not learned how you most like to be touched.” He ran his fingers easily up Tony’s thigh, just the nails brushing, and down again, harder, almost massaging the muscle. 

Tony couldn’t help the groan that escaped him, couldn’t decide whether he needed more to press into Bucky’s touch or twist away from it. “I want,” he panted, “how I most like to be touched is _by you_.” He bit his lip and tried to twist a little further, to bring those tormenting fingers where they could give him some relief.

“That, you have,” Bucky said, “always and as often as you like it.” He shifted, one finger sliding up the length of Tony’s shaft, just a bare whisper of sensation.

Sweet _gods_. Tony tried to arch into it -- not even consciously, just his body’s automatic response -- but Bucky pulled away, keeping the touch feather-light. “Where do you learn to be so _evil?_ ” he complained, shifting restlessly, utterly unable to be still.

“I’ve had many years to become so,” Bucky said, and he kept that touch, stroking up and down, one finger, then two, tracing the ridge, running down the length. He matched it with his tongue on Tony’s nipple, just flicking the barest peak.

Tony keened in desperate need, writhing futilely, half-sobbing at the almost unbearable, pleasureable torment of it, until it seemed something in him gave way. He shuddered all over and then went limp. It wasn’t that he was any less affected by Bucky’s teasing, but it seemed that the fiery sensation of it had melted his muscles, leaving him helpless to do more than gasp and moan as he hung suspended in Bucky’s grasp. He would be utterly consumed by the heat if it continued, but he thought he would die if it stopped. “Bucky, gods, oh oh oh...”

“There, my gift,” Bucky crooned, loosening his hold on Tony’s wrist, but giving them a little push as if to say _Stay There_.

No longer occupied with the need to hold Tony down, Bucky seemed determined to find new sensations, new pleasures. His mouth touched nearly every part of Tony, making notes of the noises that he made and returning to those places that made him keen with desire. 

Bucky was attentive to certain spots-- the hollow of Tony’s throat, the curve of his hip, the inside of his thigh, but also watching, observing, learning. Each time he did something that Tony thought might let him come, Bucky backed off, exploring somewhere new, until every inch of Tony’s skin seemed to be ablaze with need.

Tony’s whole body was burning with sensation, trembling like an aspen leaf at the slightest touch, his skin prickling and damp with sweat. He twined his fingers together to give himself something to hold onto, to squeeze and clench, but they stayed where Bucky had placed them, as if held down by a weight, unable to lift so much as an inch from the bedding. He was pleading, begging, but he didn’t know what for, except for knowing that only Bucky could give it to him. His entire world had narrowed to this room, this bed, the slide of Bucky’s calloused hand over his skin, the scrape of Bucky’s stubble, the flash of joy in Bucky’s eyes and the sound of Bucky’s voice in his ears, soothing and calming even as Bucky’s touches drove him higher and higher.

“There you are, my gift, my darling, beloved,” Bucky said. “Going to make you ready for me now.” He reached over to his travel bag and pulled out a corked bottle. He pulled the cork with his teeth and wet his fingers, then touched Tony intimately, fingers now slick and slippery. One twist of a coated hand over Tony’s shaft seemed to set him on fire.

Then more, beneath his balls. “Tell me, should it hurt.”

Tony nodded. “It won’t,” he said, confident. Bucky could no more hurt him than either of them could fly. “Need... need you.”

“And you will get me, my gift,” Bucky said, breaching him with one finger, strange and -- well, just strange, but everything else Bucky had done had felt incredibly good. 

“Doesn’t hurt,” he assured Bucky. He watched through lowered lashes as Bucky kept up that odd invasion, watched the faint frown of concentration on Bucky’s brow, the faint flush on Bucky’s cheeks, the play of muscle under Bucky’s skin in the little cracks of morning light sneaking into the room.

“Good,” Bucky said, and he dripped more oil onto his hand, pushing into Tony with two fingers, and then-- he did something, Tony didn’t know _what_ , but it sparked even greater pleasure than he’d known thus far, like a storm of lightning across his nerves. “Yes, just like that, trust me, my gift, I’ll make you feel so good.”

“Already do,” Tony panted, but his hips rolled a little of their own accord, seeking that sensation again. “Trust you with... with everything. Love you.”

Bucky worked him, until Tony could barely see, everything in him was light and pleasure. “There we are, spread your legs a little for me.” And he moved into the cradle of Tony’s thighs. “Hmmm. Here, lift up a moment, gonna--” Bucky reached, and then stuffed a pillow under Tony’s lower back, tilting him, canting his hips up. “There-- that should make it more comfortable for you. Ready for me, love?”

“Always,” Tony promised, his body aching for just a little more, just enough to tip him over the precipice. “Let-- Let me, please, I want, I need to touch you, please, Bucky...”

“As you wish,” Bucky said. “You’ve been very patient, I’ve learned quite a lot.” He pushed Tony’s legs apart even further, then rubbed the opening to his body. “Take a breath.” Slowly, he pressed in, his cock thicker and harder, but at the same time, smoother, than fingers, opening Tony up.

It ached, stretching him wide, but it was an ache that eased his frantic need, grounding him in this moment, in this place, with this man. Freed of the compulsion to keep his hands where Bucky had put them, he reached up, feeling the firm muscle under Bucky’s shoulders, pushing restlessly into Bucky’s hair, touching wherever he could reach, trying to hold on.

The ache sharpened for a moment, and then Tony shivered and everything went lax again, and the moment of discomfort was gone, leaving behind a sense of fullness, of joining. “Bucky--”

“Yeah,” and Bucky’s voice was strained, dark and rumbling, “you feel so good, my gift. Oh-- oh, lord, so _tight_.”

“Fitting,” Tony said, half-breathless, “because you feel so _big_. You’re, you’re filling me up.”

“ _Claiming_ you,” Bucky told him. “You’re mine, my gift, my Tony, my love, my life.” And he started to move, a burning ache that faded rapidly into driving need as Bucky chanted everything that Tony was, and everything Bucky wanted, into his ear.

Tony clung to Bucky with all his strength, tucking his face against the side of Bucky’s neck. “Yours,” he whispered, a promise he wanted to give a thousand times over. “Always yours, until the end of time.” His breath came in half-hitched gasps, but the feeling of Bucky moving in him was good, perfect, utterly sublime. Tony wrapped his legs over Bucky’s hips and gave himself up to it.

Bucky’s fingers dug in at Tony’s hips, pulling him closer, rocking them together, moving in him, over him, his breath hot and feverish against Tony’s throat. “Oh, love,” Bucky moaned, and it seemed terribly vulnerable, _needy_ , as if Tony was making Bucky feel weak with desire, heavy with need. “You’re so good to me.” 

His skin was slick with sweat, and somehow that made everything sensitive, each brush of Bucky’s body against his, and--

Bucky pushed up, one hand pushing Tony’s thigh up, the other curling over Tony’s cock. He stroked, moving in time with his thrusts, so perfectly matched that Tony didn’t know where he ended and Bucky began.

Tony cried out, fingers digging into Bucky’s skin as he arched into that touch, and they were working together now, like perfectly fitted pieces of a machine. Sensation rushed over Tony in waves, hot and cool and sparking pleasure, until it was all too much, more than he could bear, more than he could endure. He arched back as his climax washed over him. He might have screamed; he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything but the feeling of Bucky around him and in him and over him, the shattering relief of the climax.

He came back to an awareness of himself, with Bucky laying over him, heavy and too warm, but at the same time, perfectly comfortable. “Am I too heavy for you, my gift?” Bucky nuzzled at his ear.

“Not yet,” Tony murmured. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want Bucky to move. His heart was still pounding, his whole body sore from muscles held tense for so long -- and yet loose, pliant, utterly relaxed. “You... are amazing.”

“I’m happy to have pleased you,” Bucky said. “And you have pleased me. Quite a lot.”

A moment later and Bucky grimaced before pulling himself out of Tony. “Just lay there a minute, I’ll take care of you.”

Tony didn’t think he could move in that moment even if he’d wanted to. “You always do.”

* * *

Despite his best intentions, Bucky and Tony slept until somewhat after lunch, rising with the luncheon bell. The Masters had been both surprised and delighted when Bucky took his haul to the Compounds laboratory, unloading things wrapped and stored and preserved.

Tony, shamelessly skipping his lessons, peered over Bucky’s shoulder as he unpacked, asking endless questions. “What’s that? Why’s it that color? Another one? How many did you kill? ...Well then, how many hearts does it _have?_ What’s that for? How does it work? How much do you have to use?”

Bucky answered some of the questions -- “Poison gland, don’t touch it. That’s it’s skin color, I don’t know. Three, and each one has seven hearts each, provided I don’t damage it too much.”

And watched as the alchemist ignored most of the rest of the questions to weigh and measure and grade the components.

Tony leaned against Bucky’s side, fidgeting restlessly as they watched the alchemist tally up the costs in his record book. “It should be enough, right? It’s a lot, you brought back so much stuff, it’s got to be enough.”

“If it isn’t, it should be very close,” Bucky said. He hadn’t given them everything, not yet. He wanted to hold back, see how close they did get, before turning over the dragon scales. He wasn’t stupid and the alchemists were often greedy.

Tony tapped at his chest. “We can do this, right? We’re... we’re going to fix everything.”

“We’re only a few orin shy of the total,” Bucky said, eying the paper. “We’re good for it.”

The alchemist sniffed. “That is not for me to decide.”

“Like to see you get this much fresh, useful components without a Witcher,” Bucky said. “You want me to be happy with you, otherwise, the next batch would be sold to Aretuza instead.”

“Oh, I know where that is,” Tony exclaimed. “I’ve seen maps with Aretuza! We could have just gone there first.”

The alchemist sniffed again. “You’ll have to take it up with the Rector.”

Bucky nodded. “We’ll get it straight. I know _you_ don’t have the authority.”

Tony tucked his arm through Bucky’s. “Well. Let’s go and have a chat with the Rector, then.”

"We do have some concerns with this situation in Stark," the Rector said when they finally got in to see him. Bucky was beyond annoyed at this point. Humans were so petty sometimes. Well, not all of them, he decided, looking at his gift. Tony was actually pretty wonderful when you got down to it.

“What kind of concerns?” Tony demanded of the Rector. “What _situation?_ ” He drew himself up and lifted his chin, and for the first time, Bucky could actually see him as a prince and a king rather than simply _Tony_.

"Overthrow of the rightful King," the Rector said, "which you are aware, of course. An attempted military coup, which were kept out by magical means; the likes of which we have not seen before. Rumors of an alliance with Nilfgaard. We're concerned."

“That’s why we need to pay what is owed and leave,” Tony pointed out. “So that I can reclaim my throne and set my kingdom to rights.”

“A commendable notion,” the Rector said. “Our concern comes from-- well, the two of you, against the forces of Nilfgaard and the rebellious Stark troops. Even should you be able to reclaim the Loyalists. Well, we’d like to send an observer.”

“One observer?” Bucky scoffed. “That’s barely better than just the two of us.” Although he did think that Tony could probably win over the Loyalists without issue, provided they could find them.

“An _observer_ ,” Tony noted drily, “which, by the very title, means they will do nothing but watch. I very much doubt that Nilfgaard is going to turn tail and run just because your observer raises an eyebrow at them.”

“I doubt very much that they will, either,” and that was-- of course it was -- Steve. “But, as I am observing for the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, I also act on my own concerns. I can’t sit by and watch a situation headed south. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

“No you don’t,” Bucky said.

“No, I don’t.”

“Oh, no,” Tony said. “No.”

“He volunteered,” the Rector pointed out.

“Of course he did,” Bucky said, sighing. “Steve--”

“You need my help,” Steve said. “Might as well admit it and get it out of the way.”

Tony turned to look at Bucky beseechingly.

“If he does anything horrible, and you still get your kingdom back,” Bucky said, “you can have him arrested for trying to corrupt your fiance.” 

Tony rolled his eyes. “He’s not going to be arrested, he’s a _mage_.” He eyed the Rector, obviously trying to gauge just how serious the man was about this. “Fine,” he finally said. “Great. Fine. I’m sure we’ll all be fast friends by the end of it.”

Bucky twitched, just a little. “He’ll be useful. And keep his hands, legs, and other bits of anatomy to _himself_.”

“Great,” Steve said, rubbing his hands together. “When are we leaving?”

Tony looked Steve over, then turned toward the door. “Now.”

“Let’s not land in the throne room, shall we,” Steve said. “Even a Witcher and a member of the Brotherhood need a bit more breathing room than that.”

“You’re not in charge,” Bucky said. Then, lower, to Tony. “He is right, though.”

“We’re not going to the palace,” Tony said, rolling his eyes. “Before we take on the palace, we need the Loyalists. Rhodey has a country estate that he never visits. I’m betting that’s where we’ll find the core of the resistance.”

Bucky nodded. “All right. We’ll see if we can find the troops, and then come up with a plan when we’ve got a better idea how the enemy is deployed.”

Steve shook his head. “I’m already packed. Stop trying to sound like you do anything but fight solo, Buck. You’re not a military mind.”

Tony sighed. “Well, we’re off to an excellent start.” He shot Steve an unreadable look. “Meet us at the stables in half an hour.”

“Punk,” Bucky said, then put an arm around Tony’s shoulders. “Let’s go get the horses. Who, by the way, are going to hate portals.”

“Can’t wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap for this story. We sort of view this as Season 1, so if there's demand, Netflix might pick up the contract for a second season ;-)


End file.
